


The Weight of Silence

by clearascountryair



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, May's a nun, Renaissance AU, because who doesn't like THE PLAGUE, betcha didn't see that one coming, black death, probably witches too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6740902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearascountryair/pseuds/clearascountryair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1531, a young nun left her convent with three abandoned little girls in tow.  But years later, May can do nothing to protect her sweet Bobbi, Jemma, and Daisy from the world around them.  And amidst the social upheaval and religious warfare around her, not to mention a resurgence of the Plague and the growing terror of the witch-hunts, Jemma must do more than stand idly by as her world is torn apart at the seams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Sister Melinda

**Author's Note:**

> The title, _The Weight of Silence_ , was probably subconsciously borrowed from Heather Gudenkauf's novel. The plot has zero to do with it.  
> The prologue is split into six sections. Skip section II if you don't want to read a mildly graphic description of a Plague victim.  
> Shoutout fitzsimmonsaf on tumblr for beta-ing this

I. A Young Woman

It started and ended in April 1520.  On the second of the month, her mother had been waiting at the door for her, demanding in a hush tone where she had been and warning her of the dangers of men.

“It wasn’t like that,” Melinda had insisted.

On the thirtieth, a week before her fifteenth birthday, she returned home before sunrise with May flowers clenched in her fist, only to drop them in surprise at her father’s feet.  

On May 8, 1520, she stood before the Abbess with her head held high.  She stood tall with the knowledge that her parents had brought this scandal upon themselves.  She had told her father so when he woke her on her fifteenth birthday, telling her she would be taken to the convent the next day.

“If I stay here, Father, no one will suspect a thing.”  After all, there was nothing inherently scandalous about sneaking off to see your best friend after dark.  It wasn’t his fault he’s a boy.  “If you send me off, people will talk.”

But her mother only stared at her unseeing and her father said, “Better a nun than a whore.”

So she stood before the Abbess, head held high, knowing that everyone back home was talking about what sweet and quiet Melinda could have done to be whisked so quickly off to a convent.

And she couldn’t care less.

* * *

 

II. The First Girl, age unknown

She had been in the Abbey for nearly three years.  Vows had been taken and she had wedded herself to God she could not see.  But the other nuns know her story.  She’s not so godly, that Sister Melinda.  It was her ungodliness that brought her to the nunnery to begin with.  But they don’t despise her.  You can’t despise the sweet young nun who sacrifices her own meals to the little blonde girl who roams the streets.

It was January 1523 and an entire family and more had died in the village, pus-filled growths at the groined, blackened skin at their fingers.  So Melinda did as all good nuns do and prayed.  In the morning, the little girl sat outside the abbey, wailing.  Through the gates, they could see the buboes hot against her neck, blood and bile dripping down her front.

“We can make her comfortable,” Sister Melinda tried to say.

The Abbess only looked at her.  “You will not kill us all.”  And locked the gate.

Sister Melinda didn’t fight, not with the whole convent staring at her in terror, silently screaming and praying that the disease would not pass their walls.  Inside, Sister Melinda sat and prayed to a God she knew was listening.

Outside, the little girl cried and cried and cried until there was only silence.

* * *

 

III.  The Mockingbird, age nine

It was April 1527 and the air smelled it.  Some of the local women had grown to like their Sister Melinda.  They trusted her, at least.  Or the poorer ones did.

An odd one, they said of her.  She’s not truly silent, she had not vowed to abstain from the spoken word, but she seldom talked.  But prayers for food, for liberation from cruel husbands, always seemed to be answered.  Most people in town never heard her voice until that April morning.  The Death took a little girl, they said, not even her prayers could work.  She was penitent, they said,  and none knew if she needed to be.  But for two years, she prayed in silence for forgiveness, until one April morning, when she wondered for the first time if anyone was listening.

She was walking through the village with two other nuns, when the shouting started in the square.  A young man, maybe even a boy, stood by his mother, his eyes dull and uncaring, though black and blue around the edges.  His mother glares towards the center of the square, spewing accusations of sorcery, of seduction, and of wickedness.  To Sister Melinda’s shock, her words are hurled viciously at a blonde girl standing tall in the center of the circle.  So different from the one who slept for good at the Abbey gates, and yet Melinda wanted to hold the child close and whisper her sincerest apologies.  But this girl wasn’t dying.  She stood tall in the square, defiant.  The woman screeched on and on, telling the world how this child seduced her son and tried to kill him.  A man who could only be the girl’s father looked at her with disgust, without recognition or pity.

“What have you done?” he demanded of her.

She spat at his feet.  She couldn’t be more than nine.

 _Better a nun than a whore_.

So the silent nun vowed to do better, she would be the protector of the innocent, of the sweet little girl who did not deserve the world’s hatred.

“We will take her,” she said boldly, “and raise her in the way of the Lord.”

She said it even though she knew she would never follow in the steps of anyone who would allow those who followed him to stand idly by as a child was accused of crimes so vulgar.

The Abbess only stared when they returned to the convent.

“You’re willing to take full responsibility for the child?”

The nun and the girl stared right back, their voices loud in their silence.

* * *

 

IV.  The Little False Girl, age two

Before was at the convent for six months, sweet little Barbara had become a local favorite.  She was the best and the worst of novices, all tied up into one.  Sister Melinda loved her because she would never blindly follow.  The Abbess loved her because she had yet to discover that.

And, oh, that voice!  “She’s more a bird than anything else!” the Abbess was known to coo.

Only the other nuns dislike her, constantly dashing from place to place, her curtsies never more than brief bobs.  Sister Raina called her Bobbi once, and it stuck.

Little Bobbi and Sister Melinda were walking carefully to the river, ignoring the shouts from the square.  The butcher’s wife was burnt for witchcraft and treason the week before and the whole town quaked with fear of who would be next.  They were nearly at the river when a young woman appear beside them.

“Sister, please.”

Bobbi was immediately ready to follow, but Sister Melinda put a hand to her wrist.  “Who?”

“The judge’s false one.”

It was a story well-known.  A year before, an Italian woman who looked almost recognizable had appeared outside the courthouse, sobbing with an infant at her breast.

“You would leave your own child to the cold?”

For two days and two nights, she stood there screaming and coughing and crying.  On the third morning, she lay silent in the dirt, and the infant of not quite two years clutched at the judge’s robes, her big dark eyes older than they had any right to be.  And though he never loved her, all the rest did.  Full of questions, she sat in the dirt each day while her father worked, right in the spot where her mother died, pulling up leaves and flowers and holding out worms so sweetly, even the Abbess had to accept the child’s gift.  “What’s your favorite bird?  Your favorite color?  Your favorite month?”  The little girl who knew everything about everyone and never forgot.

She wasn’t even three.

She wasn’t crying when they reached the square.  She stood by her father’s side, looking around and examining the world around her, her fist stuffed into her mouth.

“She’s an odd thing,” her father protested, “But not a witch.”

“A whore’s whelp,” said the priest from the next town over.  “Her mother consorted with the Devil, how is the child any different?”

Bobbi stiffens at the word “consort” and looked to Sister Melinda for guidance.   _She’s a baby_ , her eyes scream.

“You ought to have drowned it when it arrive.”

The little girl looked up at her father.  “Waddud hurt more?” she asked, her voice wobbling with fear and babyhood and betraying the curiosity she was fighting so hard to keep in her eyes.  “Drown or burn?”

Sister Melinda shook her head.  “What has the child done?”

A nurse maid pointed at the child.  “Uncanny, the thing.  Reading Latin like the Devil’s got to her.”

Sister Melinda knelt in the dirt and held out her hand.  “Or an angel,” she said.  “Give me the child.”

“And if demons spawned it?  What if it comes to kill us all?”

But Sister Melinda ignore all but the father.  “Her fate is in God’s hands.”

The little girl stared at her, sucking gently at her thumb.

“I am Sister Melinda.”

The girl nodded.

“This is Bobbi.”

The girl made a sound around her finger that sounded almost like “Bob.”

The judge looked at them both.  “It’s called Jemma and she’s in your hands now.”

“That’s Judge Simons’ bastard. That’s the Fitz-Simmons thing,” Sister Raina said when they returned with the big-eye girl half-asleep in Bobbi’s arms.

The girl studied her surrounding, thumb in her mouth, but said nothing.

* * *

 

V. The Babe

When a baby girl was found outside the convent door, in January of 1527, the Abbess didn’t even ask.  She showed up outside the door of the bleak cell Melinda called her room with a child not much smaller than her sweet Jemma.

“You seem to be collecting them, Sister Melinda,” she said, holding out the squirming girl.

Sister Melinda took her without hesitation.

* * *

 

VI.  Protector of Women and Girls

Melinda was lucky that Bobbi skipped dinner.  It was summer of 1531, and the teenager had been on her way when she heard the most peculiar noise coming through the Abbess’s door.  Hesitantly, she stepped in to find Jemma sitting on the floor, Daisy leaned up against her, and a Bible before them.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, grabbing the Bible and returning it to its place.

“Only telling Daisy a story.”

Bobbi rolled her eyes.  “You can’t read.”

Jemma crossed her arms and glared with as much frustration as a five-year-old could muster.  “Can to!”

“What part are you reading then?”

“Genesis 19:26.  I don’t understand.”

For years to come, Bobbi would claim she had almost fainted in surprise.  “Our Jemma?  Can’t understand?”

Jemma stuck out her tongue as Daisy babbled, “Jem says s’wrong!”

Bobbi reached out quickly to hush the youngest girl.  At least Jemma had the decency to look ashamed.

“What’s wrong, Jemma?”

The girl looked at her feet.  When she spoke, it was barely a whisper on the wind.

“Not even God can make a lady into salt.  It just can’t happen.  I know it can’t.”

 

By the last week of August, Sister Melinda had truly begun to worry.  Three cows had been gifted to the convent, named by the little girls who lived there: Bessie, Eleanor, and Henry.  

One Tuesday, outside by the barn, Melinda and her three girls stood watching the cows.  It was hot and Daisy had cried under the weight of her dress until Bobbi suggested the go watch the cows.  The air was thick and humid and Bobbi almost instantly regretted her offer to hold up the smallest girl so she could see over the fence.  Jemma stood beside her, precariously balanced on the lowest bar of the fence.  Melinda stood behind her, ready to catch her if she fell.  But Jemma stood there, babbling on and on.

“Will it be May soon?”

“It’s only August.”

“But May’s your favorite.  August, September, October, November, December, January, February, March, and April, then May.  That’s a long way away.”

“I can wait.”

“It’s less hot then.  I want it to be May.  If I ask, can God make it May now?”

How unlike her little girl it was to talk on and on without stopping to breath, and to be making comments so typical of a normal five-year-old...How unlike her Jemma it was to ask the impossible of God.  “Jemma…” she said softly.

But when Jemma turned around, Melinda was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

“We can’t eat Bessie, you know,” she said so solemnly, as though she had been holding it inside her for all her years.

Bobbi turned to Sister Melinda, as though to say _I told you they shouldn’t have named them_.

But sweet little Jemma was always alert and knew each of her companions’ expressions as well as she knew her own.  So leaning back against Melinda’s chest, she shook her head.  “Henry and Eleanor are just fine and I’m sure will taste lovely,” she said, ignoring Daisy’s scandalized gasp.  “But we can’t eat Bessie.”

Melinda leaned forward, lifting the girl and balancing her on her hip.  “What’s wrong with Bessie?”

“Her eyes are all wrong.  We can’t die yet.”

It’s an odd answer, but said with such confidence that Melinda promised that all four would abstain from meat.  “We wish to show the Lord that we are grateful without being given luxuries,” she explained to the Abbess.

On the following Monday, nine sister laid bedridden.  By Wednesday, six were dead.  Melinda snuck her three girls into her room that night and watched the sleep under a careful eye.  She did her best not to wonder what the Abbess would say if she knew that a child of not even six years, and a girl at that, had known to avoid the beast.

 

It was nearly October before she made up her mind.  It grew too cold too fast, and the winds were howling and the thunder roaring like no storm Sister Melinda could remember.  The whole convent seemed to shake.  The thunder and lightning had never been so horrible, not, she was sure, in Jemma or Daisy’s whole life, and she would not sleep until she checked on her girls.  By the time she was outside the little room where her children slept, she was indeed certain that the convent was shaking.  She leaned against the door and heard Bobbi whispering inside.

“It’s alright, Daisy, darling.  It’s only thunder, it can’t hurt you!”  And inside the convent, the world seemed to calm.

Then thunder clapped once more and the ground lurched.  Melinda pushed open the door.

Immediately, Jemma broke from the others and ran to her.  “She won’t stop shaking,” she said in a terrified whisper.

Melinda looked to the youngest of her girls.  Despite the terror in her eyes, the girl was perfectly still.  Melinda turned back to Jemma, terrified the child would know her worst fears and the exact answer.

“She won’t stop shaking me.”

She knew the truth then and there.  She pulled the six year old against her chest, staring across the room to where a thirteen year old was forced to comfort a little girl with a mind she would never understand.  But Sister Melinda did not shed a tear for her girls.  Not that night.

“I need you to trust me,” she said.

It was such an odd thing to ask, for if these girls knew only one thing in their lives, it was to trust the odd nun who saved them.

 

It took two weeks for her to scavenge enough cloth for a new smock for Bobbi and herself.  The scraps became mittens and scarves.  A woman and three girls traveling alone might be odd, but she was never meant to be a nun.

It was several days before they saw their first cart.  She thought they might be nearing Lille.

“Please,” she asked.  “My little girls…”

He allowed them on.  “Where are you going?” he asked, and when she didn’t answer, “What are you called?”

She stared at the three girls around her.  Bobbi leaning half-awake on her shoulder, Daisy curled up fast asleep on her lap.  And Jemma, quiet and precocious little Jemma with her head in Melinda’s lap, looking up at her with big brown eyes.

“May,” she murmured softly, dipping to kiss the child’s brow.

“Only May?”

She looked down, nodding in the darkness, adjusting the girls so they all rested in her lap, and watched as they drifted off to sleep, leaving her alone in the silence of her mind.


	2. I

"I told you it was stupid.  I told you when you asked me and I told you when you ignored my advice.  Acting solely on your heart never ended well for anyone."

Jemma blinked herself awake at the sound of May's hushed voice, wondering what Daisy could have done this time.

_Daisy_.  She blinked a few more times.  All her life, as far back as she could recall, she had shared a bed with Bobbi.  Bobbi with her thick and pretty curls that stayed braided all night. But then Bobbi had left and Jemma was stuck with Daisy.  It might not have been so terrible if she hadn't woken every morning for the last seven months with Daisy's unruly hair covering her face.  She silently sputtered, doing her best to remove her sister's hair from her mouth.

"You don't have to say 'I told you so,' May."

Jemma let out an audible gasp, sitting straight up in her little bed and knocking Daisy to the side.

"Bob!"

Half asleep, Daisy groaned out Jemma's name, but Jemma couldn't care.  Squealing, she threw herself across the little room onto the other little cot and wrapped her arms around Bobbi.

"You're back!" And then a million possibilities dawned on her.  "Is everything alright?  What happened?  Did he hurt you?"

"Do we need to kill him?" Daisy sat down, curling up between them, still fighting to wake up.

May held up a silencing hand.  "Let her talk."

Bobbi looked at her sisters.  She was so tired.  There were shadows under her eyes and her face had take on a sickly pallor.

"How long have you been traveling, Bob?"

Bobbi leaned forward and kissed Jemma's brow.  "Not long, but far.  Had to get home quickly to you ducklings."

"Did he do something wrong?"

Bobbi sighed.  "No. Well, maybe.  I don't know.  He was just...frustrating.   And he could be so crude and so brash.  And I liked it there fine, but it's not here."  She pulled both Jemma and Daisy close to her.  How only luck had brought them together seemed beyond belief to be her.  A life where the four of them weren't together was unimaginable.

May sat with her back straight, watching calmly over her girls. "And his family?" she asked.

"Not terrible.  All boys, the lot of them.  One was a bit of an ass in a very Jemma-type way."

Jemma pretend to gasp, offended.  "Rude."

"Christ, was he clever, Jemma.  You might be evenly matched for once."

Jemma was about to ask if Bobbi would ever go back, if they would ever meet these brothers, but Daisy spoke first.

"How young do they go?"

Jemma giggled as Bobbi playfully hit Daisy over the head.  "Not young enough for you, duck."

For a moment, they sat in silence on the bed that had always bed May and Daisy's.  Jemma kept her head pressed firmly against Bobbi's shoulder, all but burying her face into her sister's neck.  She smelled of sweat and grass and dirt and something Jemma didn't know.

"Were you very unhappy?" she asked softly, breaking the gentle silence.

She felt Bobbi shake her head above her.  "Not unhappy, no.  Frustrated, yes.  Bored at times, and homesick.  But no one was unkind to me.  He made a good husband when he wanted to."

"And when he didn't?"  But Daisy's question was overshadowed by May's soft, seemingly apathetic voice.

"And what do you know of good husbands?"

Jemma caught Daisy's eye from where her face rested against Bobbi's opposite shoulder, listening as she was to the heavy beat of the heart between them.

"I love him," Bobbi said in a steady voice.  "Very much."

"Then why come back?"

"Because I will never belong anywhere not with anyone as I do here, with you."  The words fell from Bobbi's lips so quickly as to sound rehearsed.  Again, silence fell.  And then:

"You belong to no one, Barbara. Not to your husband, and not to me.  You've been taught better, you ought to listen to no one but yourself."

"So I shouldn't have left?  I should have listened to you?"  A sound almost like contempt sneaks into Bobbi's words.

"Do you resent me?  For being right?  You would resent me more, I think, if you listened."  May sighed.  "Daisy, we're in need of flour."  She placed a hand on Jemma's knee.  "It may be polite to at least offer to take Bobbi's skirt with the other laundry."

Their cue was clear.  Daisy began to look for her vest, hair still half braided when she finally moved to the little ladder to go down below, Jemma behind her.

"We missed you, Bob."

Bobbi smiled.

* * *

Jemma never minded doing the laundry.  If she were honest, she quite liked it.  It was an easy path, trudged by her own little feet over the years, from the little house on the edge of the village to the little creek a mile through the wood.  It was her place and had always been.  It was almost a ritual.  She would leave the little house, stepping lightly with bare feet on the cold stone outside.   She would lift her skirt and tie it up into the sash of her apron, the skin from her knees to her toes prickling in the cold air.  She loved the feel of mud squishing between her toes, splashing up over her heels and ankles.  She balanced the basket on her hip and smiled as the sound of the creek met her ears.

So she sat that morning on the bank of the creek, absentmindedly washing the clothes and naming the plants around her.

What was good in soup?  What could soak and soothe their skin?  What should she stay far away from?

A spider crawled up her bare calf and stood there, and half an inch above her knee, directly on top of a freckle.  She smiled at it.  How odd it might be to be so small.  It might be nice, though, to be as small as a spider without any cares, without ever having to talk to anyone.

It wasn't that Jemma was shy, because she wasn't, not at all.  But people didn't make sense to her the way they seemed to make sense to Bobbi and Daisy.  Her sisters seemed to have a way with the world and the people in it that Jemma could never understand. She was sweet, people said of her, but only those who knew her.  "Just sometimes," Daisy once said, "you talk and talk and you're so damn clever that I haven't the slightest clue what you're saying.  And I'm pretty damn clever, too."

And once she had heard Bobbi whisper to May when the whole world was meant to sleep, "Do you worry about her, our Jemma?  People talk, you know.  They find her awkward, alienating.  Aloof." She had paused before adding.  “All cooped up here, she doesn’t socialize like Daisy does.  They think she’s odd, May.  Odd for anyone, but especially girl.” May had hushed her, but Bobbi had continued on, in an even softer whisper.  “You know what happens to girls with minds like hers.”

_With minds like hers, with minds like hers_.

She would never know if there were girls with minds like hers, she had resolved, because minds like hers knew to stay quiet, to be the odd and quiet girl and avoid all suspicion, even at the cost of knowing anyone.  Jemma tried very hard not to mind.  She didn't mind being so alone.  If May and the girls worried for her, it was for naught.

The few people she had managed to talk to were rather boring, anyway.  Aside from her family, that is.

She knew humans weren't meant to be solitary, and her family fulfilled her emotional needs, didn't they?  Romance was something for Daisy and Bobbi to fantasize about.  Jemma knew better.  She had read Chaucer, hadn’t she?  Romance wasn’t all it was made out to be.

No, Jemma was quite fine being alone.

A tree rustled behind her and she stood, spinning around.

"Daisy?"  No one said a thing, but she was certain there were footsteps.  "Bobbi?"

Her leg tickled as a snail crawled up.  "May?"

Her neck prickled and, brushing the snail from her leg, she gathered up the sopping laundry and ran home.

"You're flushed," May told her when  she walked through the door, having hung the laundry haphazardly on the line.  "Is something wrong?"

"Maybe there's a reason she likes being a little laundress," Bobbi said with a laugh and a wink.  May silenced her with a glance.

"Come here," she said softly, and placed a cool hand upon Jemma's brow.  "You look like you've had a fright."

Jemma forced a smile. She tried to be honest with May always, as often as she could.  But Jemma knew herself and knew her family.  Nothing bothered neither May nor her sisters.  They hadn't been scared of anything in all of Jemma's memory.  True, once they had feared Daisy's gift, as they called it, but week after week, and month after month of careful, private conversations with May, that fear subsided and the world stilled.  Nothing shook around Daisy anymore, not unless she was purposefully annoying her sisters.

No. Not May nor Bobbi nor Daisy feared anything. Just Jemma.

"I thought I saw a snake out in the garden," Jemma said, looking at the floor.  "It startled me, that's all."

May's hand dropped to Jemma's cheek.  "Only a snake?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Bobbi raised an eyebrow behind May, but Jemma ignored it.  They would know she was lying, they always did.  But that wasn't the end of the world.  At least there would be nothing solid to tease her for.  May, at least, would pretend to believe her.

"How frightening. Let's hope it doesn't come inside."

Jemma nodded.  "That would be awful.  I saw a snail down at the creek," she added.  That much was true.  "I thought of bringing it back and putting it on Daisy while she slept, but if Bobbi's back..."

"I can handle worse than a snail," Bobbi said with a laugh.  “I’ve been married now.”

And, for a moment, May seemed to smile.

* * *

 

That night, Jemma curled up in her little cot with Bobbi beside her.  Below, May bustled around.  She never came to bed until long after her girls were asleep.

"Bob?"  Daisy's voice sounded far off from the other cot.  "What was it like?"

"Wet."

"Not traveling, goose.  Being married."

Bobbi snorted.  "Not terrible."

"That's an awful answer."

"Well, what do you want to know?"

Jemma laughed, her face half buried in the pillow.  "She's Daisy, Bob.  She wants to know whatever you won't tell May."

"Naughty child."

Jemma nodded in agreement.

Bobbi sighed.  "The parts you want to know were more wonderful than you could ever imagine."

"Then why'd you leave?"

For a long time, Bobbi was quiet.  Jemma curled tighter into her and listened to the steady beat of her sister's heart. There was a shuffle and a soft patter before the cot shifted and Daisy snuggled herself against Bobbi's other side.

"Do you ever wonder," Bobbi began in a hushed tone, "if we're meant to belong anywhere?"

Jemma reached down to find Bobbi's hand and squeeze it gently.  "There has to be more than us, Bob, doesn't there?"

The bed trembled slightly, as though Daisy had forgotten any other way to express herself.

"Hush it, or May will come up," Bobbi hissed.  “There is a whole big world at there, and I don’t know if I want to run to it or away.  None of us are who we ought to be.”

“You’re torn,” Jemma supplied, nodding against Bobbi.  “What’s the point of living if you can’t be happy, but what’s the point of being happy if you can’t live?”

There was a moment of silence as Bobbi contemplated her response.  Then Daisy snorted.

“You’re weird, Jem.  I love you more than anything, but that was terribly morbid.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Jemma sighed.

But to her surprise, Bobbi shook her head.  “Not weird, just old,” she said.  "I love you both more than anyone, you know.  Even if you're both probably witches."

They laughed quietly and then lay there in the silence.  When May came up, all three girls were still curled together, deep in sleep.

* * *

When Jemma woke, it was to the soft patter of the rain outside.  Her left leg hung awkwardly off the bed, having been squished to the side by the combined restlessness of her sisters.  Outside, a bird cooed.  It had to be early, it was still dark out.  Quietly, Jemma slipped from the bed and let herself down the little step ladder.  May was tending to a fire, raindrops sparkling in her hair.

"Did I wake you?"

Jemma shook her head wordlessly and sat down next to May.

"Will you be honest with me?" she asked after a moment of silence.

May stared at her, her expression untelling.  "If it suits you."

Jemma had long since grown to accept the cryptic world they lived in and continued on.  "Am I odd?"

"Do you know when I met you, Jemma?"

"When they wanted to burn me."  Jemma had heard the story, time and time again, of the father who only loved her enough to question a sentence, and not enough to take her away.  " _Enough to give you to me_ ," May had told her when she was a child.

"You're not a clever girl, Jemma," May said softly.  "If you were simply clever, you'd go into town with Daisy, you'd flirt with boys you shouldn't, and you would be content.  Not happy, necessarily, but you would be content here."

"I am content here." Jemma's earnest was genuine when she spoke, but May shook her head.

"No, you're not.  You're not clever, Jemma, it's not so simple.  If you were less honest, and less good, if you told people God came to you as you slept, that Christ speaks to you deep within your soul--if you told people that your words would bring salvation, then, perhaps, people would listen to you.  Perhaps you'd write letters of profound advice to kings and alchemists and theologians and scholars."

"If I were bold as Bobbi or Daisy--"

"You _are_ bold, in your own way.  You do not need to be bold the way they are bold.  Yes, Jemma, you are odd, very odd, but you'd do better to not forget it.  Clever is an insult for you, because you’re brilliant.  I’ve never met anyone who thinks as you do.  Bobbi used to think you could read minds, because you always knew the answer, and got there a hundred times faster than anyone else.  Oddness and brilliance are not mutually exclusive."  For a while, May was quiet and Jemma could only stare at her.  It was so unlike her guardian to speak with such emotion and affection.  It wasn't that May was uncaring--she was the most caring person Jemma had ever known.  But never before had Jemma felt so privy to May's private thoughts.  Desperately she wanted to respond, but words failed her. Fortunately, May spoke again.  "I hate myself for it, but sometimes I wish you were a boy, more than the others.  If you were a boy, you could be anyone.  You could be happier, Jemma.  Outside of the church, there's no place for a girl who's more than clever.  But I took you away and that's on me."

Jemma shook her head and grabbed May's wrist.  "I couldn't belong there, May.  You said so, you said I was too clever and they'd turn on me."

May sighed.  "And you grew up.  You could have tricked them yet, Jemma.  How proud they could have been of Saint Jemma with the brain of all the best scholars combined into one little girl."  She stood and went to the window.  "It's a lovely snail day.  You should go and see what you can find."

"May--"

"Go on, Jemma.  It's a lovely morning. Go out and find out for me what make a snail different from a girl."

Jemma snorted.  "Well, that list is infinite."

"Then tell me why.  What make a snail a snail and a girl a girl?"

An impossible question, one Jemma knew to mean the conversation was over. Smiling softly at May, Jemma grabbed on of the old cloaks thrown over the chair and her notebook and charcoal from the table, and headed out.

May was right.  It was a lovely morning, by Jemma's standards at least.  She never loved the sun, not as much as Daisy and Bobbi did--she burned too terribly.  The rain was nice, soft and gentle and calming.  It made the world shine, the way the droplets clung to the leaves and grass all through the morning, the way it breathed life into the dying world.  No, rain was never as antagonistic as her sisters could make it out to be.  The rain dripped into her hair and down her nose and she was content.

How could May think got a moment that she wasn't?  Jemma could remember no life before May and very little from before she left the convent. Through all the confusion and pain and hardship, through Bobbi's need to defend her sisters at any cost, through Jemma's tendency to know everything she shouldn't, through Daisy's ability to turn the world upside down, May had stood there, loving and supporting her girls unconditionally.  It wasn't that they could do no wrong in her eyes--they could and they did.   But mistakes were meant to be learned from and family was meant to forgive.  However the girls misbehaved, however many times that brought their little household into the center of town gossip, May was there.  Neither words nor actions, Jemma was sure, could ever convey her gratitude.  No, she could not be discontent, not with the safety of the world so carefully crafted for her.  To do so would deny all the effort and all the sacrifice May had made to provide for them.

When she arrived at the creek, at her usual spot, she turned to walk upstream, away from the village and from whatever had spooked her the previous day.  It was probably just a stray dog or and group of village children, but still she felt uneasy.  She moved slowly through the misty rain, the stones and mud slick beneath her bare feet.  Just less than a mile from her typical spot, she found a flat rock under a tree and sat down. Overturning another rock, she found a plethora of snails and bugs of all sorts, and smiled to herself.  It hadn't been so long ago that Jemma would entertain herself by hiding such creatures in her sisters' belongings.  It had stopped after Jemma herself woke up with a little snake on her chest--though neither Bobbi nor Daisy had yet to admit to that.  A cool breeze blew from across the creek and Jemma drew the shawl tighter around herself.  She pulled up her knees to her chest, her skirt barely hitting mid-calf, and plucked a worm from the dirt, watching as it slid gently between her fingers.

"Watch it doesn't bite you."

Jemma scoffed absentmindedly.  "Worms don't bite," she said.  And the she gasped and hurried to stand.  In her rush, she slipped on the stone, skidding until the stranger grabbed her by the arms.

"I'm sorry," he said.  "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Jemma pulled back and looked him over, trembling.  He was older.  Not old, necessarily, but perhaps May's age, maybe a few years difference.  His hair was receding, but his face was friendly.  Still, Jemma stepped back.

"Really, I'm sorry to have frightened you," he repeated.  “It was a joke--my boys would bolt to have anything crawl from the mud into their hands.  Well, some of them would, at least.”

Jemma ignored his comment.  "You've been following me," she said, unquestioningly.

"Well, not technically.  I saw you yesterday and was going to ask a question, but you took off."

"So you came back?"

"I'm looking for someone.  I owe an apology and I've been instructed to come out in this direction.  Really, I didn’t mean to frighten you."

"Who?"

"Barbara Morse."

Bobbi?  She clutched her book tighter in her hand.

"You know her."

"No. I've never met her in my entire life.  Never even heard of her."

The man smiled.  "You're not a very good liar.  Do you know where I can find Bobbi?"

"How do you know her?"

The man smiled kindly.  "She was married to my boy for a bit and ran off.  Can't really blame her.  I just wanted to make sure she got home safely and apologize for my son's foolishness."

Jemma bit her lip, unsure of what to say, and pushed her hair back behind her ear.  If she were anyone else right now--Bobbi, Daisy, and May could tell a person's character almost on sight. Not Jemma.  And he could be lying, couldn’t he?  Despite their relative isolation, most people still knew that Bobbi had run off and married, leaving her peculiar little family a person short.  He could really be anyone.

Exhaling, she nodded and turned quickly on her heal.  If he followed her, he followed.  If not, perhaps all the better.

She could hear the sound of the man following behind her and did her best to ignore him.  It was early, but no longer unreasonably so.  Everyone would be awake and at home and if he was acting wrongly, they’d take care of him.

“You’re Jemma, aren’t you?” he said, as he followed her through the trees.  “She talks about you all the time.  Told one of my boys you were cleverer than he was.  Frankly, I’m not sure if that’s possible.  He’s a bit odd, but probably the cleverest boy I’ve ever known.”

Jemma rolled her eyes and kept walking.  “Every boy thinks he’s the cleverest,” she said.  “And I’m not clever,” she continued, May’s words coming back to her.  “I’m brilliant.”

“Ha!  You even talk like him.”

“You don’t need to make small talk,” she said.  She meant to sound harsh and was almost ashamed by the slight squeak in her voice.  Fortunately, the man fell silent.  When they got to the short footpath leading up to the cottage, he stopped.

“I won’t go in,” he said.  “I’ll wait.  And if Bobbi won’t talk to me, I’ll leave.  I just want to know she’s safe.”

Jemma nodded and went into the house.  May, Bobbi, and Daisy sat around the fire, bread on the table.

“You’re back early,” May said, looking up as soon as she stepped inside.  “Is everything alright?”

Jemma looked back over her shoulder.  “I lied,” she said before she could stop herself.  “There was someone at the creek yesterday.  I think.  I heard something and I got scared and came home and then today I was just sitting there and a man started to talk to me and started asking me all about Bobbi and followed me home and--”

May was one her feet before either Daisy or Bobbi could react to Jemma’s words.

“Stay inside,” she ordered, slamming the door shut behind her.  Bobbi stood and pulled Jemma close.

“Who are you?” They heard her yell.  “How dare you stalk a child, _my_ child?  Who do you think--”

And then she stopped.  Outside, there was no sound but the falling rain.  Jemma looked up at Bobbi, eyes wide.

“Stay inside,” she echoed.  She fixed Daisy with a stare and repeated herself.  “Inside.”

Neither listened and immediately followed Bobbi outside, waiting together in the doorway as Bobbi stormed down the footpath.  May stood halfway to the end, saying nothing, and the man stared right back, confused.

“For goodness sake!” Bobbi exclaimed.  “I thought of all of them, you’d respect my choice to leave.”

The man nodded, still staring at May.  “This is your mother?” he asked.

Bobbi crossed her arms.  “Closest I’ll ever have.  Is that a problem, Phil?”

The man, Phil, Jemma supposed, laughed.

“Melinda,” he said with a grin, holding out one hand to May.  “It’s good to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo but like writing Coulson even in such a small part was about 9000 times harder than I anticipated?
> 
> Anyway, I'm clearascountryair on tumblr


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, agentcalliope, for beta-ing this!

When May didn't respond, Phil continued.  "You look well.  Especially for a woman with three grown daughters.  Especially if the others are anything like Bobbi."

May shook her head.  "What are you doing here?"

"I've got boys.  Collected them, really."  He laughed.  "Four of them right now, but it's always changing. They're always bringing home friends that won't leave.  Lance," he said, nodding towards Bobbi, "He's my second youngest."

"Phil."  May's voice had dropped her initial shock and now carried a warning tone too familiar to her girls.  

"Like I told your Jemma, I just wanted to make sure Bobbi made it back safely.  She left in the middle of the night and Fitz didn't think it worth waking the rest of us for."

Bobbi snorted. "Good lad."

May shot her a look and silence returned.  And then, again, Phil spoke.

"They told your family you died during an outbreak.  That you developed a habit of caring for children and got sick."

May glared at him and Jemma felt Daisy shift beside her.

"May," she began tentatively, "why were you at the convent?"

May turned to her unblinking.  "You didn't finish eating.  Go inside."

"I'm not hungry."

"Bobbi, take the girls inside and see that they finish eating."

Daisy pouted and Bobbi cocked her head to the side.

"Now!"

Jemma turned to follow her sisters, but paused. "Would your boys really cry over a worm?"

Phil smiled at her.  "Maybe only if it was dead."

"Well, that's stupid."

"Jemma!"

Jemma sighed and followed her sisters inside.

"Do you think they were lovers?" Daisy asked as soon as the door shut behind them.

Bobbi shrugged.  "He always reminded me of her.  They're not a thing alike, but I always thought that maybe they'd get along."  Then, with a conspiratorial wink, she placed her ear against the door.  "Blast!"

Jemma mimicked her, but only the faintest, intelligible whispers made it through the door.  Daisy, on the other hand, walked over to the window and snorted.

"Well, she's warmed."

Immediately, her sisters went to join her.  May and Phil were sitting on a fallen tree trunk, talking intently.  

"Oooh, May's smiling!" Jemma squealed.  Bobbi hushed her.  

"Do you think she'll send you back, Bobbi?" Daisy asked in an undertone.  

"I hope not!"

"Look at how she looks at him!"

Bobbi laughed.  "I thought you detest romance, Jemma?"

Jemma rolled her eyes.  "I didn't say a thing about romance.  Just look, though.  She trusts him."

And as they watched their mother through the window, they could see that Jemma was right.  For hours, May talked to the stranger, giving him looks that her girls had long thought were reserved only for them.  She listened to him intently, nodding when she agreed and glaring when she didn't.  By noontime, the girls had fallen into silence, the conversation outside too far and to soft for them to hear.  

"I'm bored," Daisy moaned.

Jemma shot her a look, sitting at the table with a rat she had found trapped under the trunk.

Daisy only glared back. "If that bites you and we all die, I'll kill you."

"Oh, it's harmless!  Don't be such a ninny.  Besides, you can't kill me if we're all already dead!"

"Oh!" Bobbi exclaimed from where she remained by the window.  "They're fighting!"

Without warning, and before giving her sisters time to react, Bobbi walked to the table, grabbed the rat by its tail, and flung it at Daisy.   Predictably, the youngest girl let out a surprised shout.

Bobbi winked at Jemma and began to scream.  "Kill it, Daisy, kill it!  May!  MAY!"

Immediately the door swung open and May ran in, Phil at her heels.

“What’s wrong?” May looked around the room, flushed.

Bobbi looked at her, eyes wide with feigned innocence.  “There was a rat, ma’am.”

“A rat?”  Daisy nodded and May sighed.  Still fixing her gaze on Bobbi, she said, “Jemma, you know I will never prevent your from...studying, but I would prefer you to keep your experiments out of the house.”

Jemma nodded, hoping that Bobbi had some sort of actual motivation and plan, and went to get the rat, who had scampered into the corner.

“I think he may be concussed.”

Daisy rolled her eyes.  “It’s a _rat_ , Jemma.”

“Well, he got thrown.”

May crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows.  “He did, did he?”

Jemma’s mouth hung open.  “Yes, well…” She stood there in the middle of the room, concussed rat dangling by the tail from her hand, and she could feel the glares of her sisters boring into her.  “It climbed on--and attacked--Daisy.  And she got surprised.  And he got thrown.  Poor thing.”  She let out a breathy, nervous laugh.

“For all her brains,” May said, “Jemma could not tell a lie if her life depended on it.”  She then turned to stared pointedly at Phil.  “I would not trade her honesty for the world.”

Phil stared back and forth for a moment between mother and daughter.  “I seem to have offended you.”

May shook her head.  “You are not the first, nor will you be the last.  But I have to ask you to leave.  Please.”

“Melinda--”

“You may tell your son that Bobbi returned home safely and that, if one day she wishes to return, I will not stop her.  But as I have my daughters, you have your sons, and I believe it is time that you returned to them.”

Phil nodded and turned to the door.  “I am glad, Melinda, to have found you alive and well,” he said in farewell, glancing back at the women behind him: Daisy sitting on the trunk at the corner, Bobbi at the window, Jemma still awkwardly holding the fidgeting rat, and May standing in the middle of the room, trying so hard to recognize him.

She sighed, her shoulders dropping, and for once didn’t think about the questions her daughters would later ask when she said, “You could have written.”

Phil stared at her, and probably would have continued to do so indefinitely, were it not for the rat taking that silence to wring itself from of Jemma’s grasp.

“Oh!”

Phil smiled.  “Good luck, Melinda.  You have three very lucky girls.”

To everyone’s surprise, Daisy snorted.  “Have you been outside, sir?  With all due respect, there’s no such thing as a lucky girl.”

For a moment, Phil looked as though he wanted to respond, but he only nodded his head with a sad smile, and left.

For several minutes, there was only silence in the cottage.  May stood there, staring at the closed door, the silence of her daughters’ unasked questions deafening.  And then everyone spoke at once.

“What did you talk about?”

“How do you know him?”

“Did you _know_ him?”

May spun around, skirt swishing around her legs.  “I will say this,” she said softly, “and then there will be no more questions.  Is that understood?”

All three girls nodded.

“Phil was a friend of mine from childhood.  Merely a friend.  My parents thought our friendship would spark unsavory talk about our family’s reputation and decided I would be best off in a convent.  It was longer ago than I care to remember.  But I am glad he has found happiness.  Now, if you please, Jemma, I think we would all appreciate it if you located our concussed friend and escorted him outside of this house.”

For perhaps the first time, none of the girls pressed the matter further.

But nothing was quite the same after that.  In the week following Phil’s impromptu visit, something (though no one was sure what), felt wrong.  

For the first time, Bobbi, Jemma, and Daisy were sure that May was hiding something from them.

For Jemma, the most jarring moment came four days following Phil’s departure.  She had been following the stars for some time now.  She wasn’t sure if what everyone said was true, that looking at the stars could tell you everything you had been and everything you could be, but she found them fascinating none the less.

(And, though she would never admit to May or the girls, there is that secret thrill that, maybe somewhere in the stars, she can find out who she’s meant to be).  

And on that particular night, she needed to see them properly.  Not from their little window and now from just outside the door.  She knew the path to the creek, that path she trudged with her own two feet, so well that getting there in the darkness shouldn’t be a problem.  And May had been so out of sorts, she wouldn’t notice if Jemma slipped out for only half an hour or so.  

When Daisy and Bobbi went to bed, Jemma went along, curling up beside Bobbi and joining in the nightly gossiping.  Fortunately, it seemed the topic of Phil and May’s relationship seemed to have been overdone and, quickly, the girls fell into silence.  When her sisters’ breathing grew slow and steady, Jemma began silently listening constellations, bones, anything to keep her from sleeping.  After an hour or two, May climbed slowly up the ladder.  Jemma shut her eyes and matched her breathing to Bobbi.  She listened as May discarded her vest and stockings and slipped into bed with Daisy.  Eventually, her breathing slowed to join her daughters in sleep.  

Quietly as she could, Jemma extracted herself from the blankets and stood silently in the middle of the room, listening for any changes in their breathing.  Miraculously quiet, she slipped down the ladder and out the door.  

It was worth it, she thought the moment she reached the creek, even if May was waiting up for her when she returned, it was so completely worth it to see the stars that bright.  For a whole hour, she let herself sit there in the darkness, consumed by the infinite world around her.  How, she wondered, could a girl so small in a life so confined exist in a realm so vast?  For just that hour, Jemma allowed herself to imagine all the possibilities of life, of who she could be.  But in the end, she knew, she was just a young girl, and she knew what that was worth.

When she returned back to the cottage and found May undisturbed, she praised a god she didn’t believe in, and returned to her place at Bobbi’s side.

The next morning, Jemma woke early as always and, though getting out of bed was particularly unpleasant, she was thankful that her body prevented her from sleeping late and reveal her late-night adventures to her family.  Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she clambered down the ladder.  May was standing at the window, her face drawn.

“Good morning, May.”

May didn’t smile.  “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked.

Jemma bit the inside of her lip and tucked her hair back behind her ears.  “I’m sorry?”

“Did you enjoy yourself?  Last night?”

_Damn it all to hell_ .  “I haven’t the _slightest_ idea what you are talking about.”

“Where did you go?”

“I didn’t go anywhere.  I was in bed all night.  Slept like a babe.”

To her shock, May slammed a hand down on the windowsill.  “Sixteen-year-olds sneak out at night, Jemma, but sixteen-year-olds lie about it.  So either convince me that you were in bed all night or tell the truth.”

“I...I…” Jemma stared for a minute.  She was a terrible liar and the whole family knew it.  But May had always accepted it, pretending to believe the ridiculous babble that spilled out of Jemma’s mouth whenever she was dishonest.  “I just wanted to see the stars.  I’m sorry.”

May shooked her head.  “You’re a child, Jemma.  Be a child.  Where did you go last night.”

Jemma cocked her head, confused.  May _wanted_ her to lie?  “I...stayed in bed?”

May pulled out a chair and gestured for Jemma to sit.  “Convince me,” she said, voice low.

“What did I do?” Jemma asked in a whisper.  She meant for it to sound stubborn, angry, but it just sounded terrified.

“Where did you go?”  Jemma had heard May angry before, perhaps even angrier, far angrier than she sounded in that moment.  But never before had May’s anger been directed at _her_.  And she hated herself for, but brought her hands flying to her mouth as she let out choked sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!  I just wanted to look at the stars!  I just wanted to see them properly!” she wailed.  “I only went to the creek, just me.  There was no one else, May.  No one else was with me, I swear!  I swear!”

As quickly as May’s anger appeared, it vanished, and she swooped down to wrap Jemma in her arms, in the kind of deep embrace she hadn’t given since they were children.  The kind of embrace that said “I am here.  You are safe.  I love you.”

“I’m sorry,” May whispered in her ear.  “I know, Jemma, I know.  I’m so, so sorry.”  She pulled away, cupping Jemma’s face in her hands and looking at her.  “You, and Daisy and Bobbi, you are my world.  You know that, don’t you?”

Jemma nodded, still shaking.

“Jemma, you are the kindest and most honest person I have ever known.  And I admire you for it completely.  If the whole world was half as honest as you, if everyone only half detested lying as you do, it could be a beautiful world that we live in.  And I have tried, Jemma, I have tried to protect you from it.  But one day, your life is going to depend on your ability to lie.  And I will not let my... _selfish_ attempts to keep you innocent endanger your life.  So next time you want to hide the truth from me, hide it.  Hide it no matter what.  If you must bury it in half truths, if you must lie to yourself, do it.  Because I will not let you die simply because you are too good.”

Jemma nodded, tears clouding her vision.  Face drained of color, May kissed her brow.

“Go back to sleep, Jemma.  And, when you wake, we’ll start again.”

Again, Jemma nodded, and shakily stood.  When she got upstairs, both Bobbi and Daisy were sitting wide eyed in Jemma and Bobbi’s bed, and Jemma ran to them.  Jemma nuzzled her head into the crook of Bobbi’s shoulder and Daisy lay down in her lap, rubbing her leg.

“There are worse things,” Bobbi said softly, “than to be scolded for your goodness.”

Daisy nodded.  “One day, Jemma, you’ll be like Bob and meet a boy.  And then we shall all learn her true wrath.”

At that, Jemma could not help but laugh.

* * *

 

After that morning, life appeared to return to a semblance of normality.  Jemma would wake early and break her bread with May while her sisters slept.  She would go to the creek and document the life she witnessed there before returning home.  She would sit propped against Bobbi in the evenings while Daisy fascinated them all with the oddest of stories, accompanied by timely little jerks of the cottage and May’s only half-scolding “Daisy.”  A week after Phil had appeared in their lives, it was as though he was never there.

But one night, exactly a week later, something odd happened when May went up to bed.  Jemma was still half awake, thinking too deeply about the new plant she had discovered that afternoon, and only just remembered to steady her breathing, so as not to worry May with her restlessness.  But after preparing for bed, rather than settling in with Daisy, May came to her bedside and reached over Jemma, placing a hand on Bobbi’s arm.

“Bobbi, Bobbi, wake up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Go sleep with Daisy.”

Jemma fought to keep her breathing even as Bobbi sat up.  “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine.  Just go sleep with Daisy.”

“May?” Jemma could not help but ask as the older woman slipped into bed beside her.

“Shhh.  Just sleep, Jemma.  Just try and sleep.”

Eventually, she did.  But the next morning she was woken not by her body’s natural desire to wake, but by May’s gentle shake.  She opened her eyes and wondered if she had slept at all, for only moonlight shone through the window.

“I need you to dress, quickly now, and I need you to be very brave.”

Jemma sat up, confused, as May pressed a bundle of clothing into her hands.  Carefully, Jemma lay them over her legs.  A traveling coat, a doublet, and

“May, what are we doing?” She held the breeches out before her, staring back and forth between them and May in utter confusion.

“I will explain downstairs.  Quickly, quickly.”

So, quickly as she could, Jemma doned a boy’s dress and descended the ladder, cloak thrown over her shoulders.  “May, please tell me--” She broke off, staring as May paced the room with a small blade dangling from her hand.

“Do you remember what I told you as a child?”

“Many things.”

“Do you remember when I said I would never let harm come to you?”

“You haven’t, May, not ever.”

May shook her head.  “Every day I bring you harm, Jemma.  Every day I keep you locked away from the world, I stifle all that you could be.”

Jemma ran to her and grabbed her by the wrists.  “No, May, you’ve done everything.  You’ve loved me more than anyone could or should and you have given me my life.”

“But you can be so much more.”

And suddenly, Jemma’s brain seemed to wake, registering the boy’s clothing, registering the blade, May’s discomfort and secrecy, the earliness of the morning.

“How?” she managed to squeak.

“By being very, very brave.”

Jemma nodded and walked to the chair.  Sitting down, she began to undo her braid with trembling hands.  “I can be brave,” she heard herself say.  “I can be brave like you.”

“Oh, Jemma,” and she was certain her name could never again be said with such affection.  “I need you to be so much braver.”

By the time a quiet hand rapped on the door, her once long hair barely hit her shoulders.  Jemma buried herself in May’s chest, desperate for her embrace.

“Mother, keep me safe” she whispered, her voice melting in the morning air.

May stroked her cheek and kissed her brow.  “I am so proud, Jemma Simmons” she said, “of everything you are and every _brilliant_ thing I know you will be.”  

She then walked quickly to the trunk and took out a man’s hat.  Smiling sadly, she placed it on Jemma’s head and went to answer the door.

Phil stood waiting on the other side, smiling kindly at the women before him.  Next to him stood a man Jemma had never seen, a handsome boy perhaps five or so years older than she was, with dark hair, dark eyes, and an almost annoyed half smile.  Her hands trembled as May pressed a small sack into her arms and Phil gestured to the cart and horse waiting at the end of the path.

“I’d like you to meet Ward, my oldest,” Phil said, gesturing to his companion.  “Ward, this is James Simmons.  We’ll be helping him on his journey to the university.”


	4. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to agentcalliope for beta-ing!
> 
> Also, if any of you have been keeping track of dates, I've changed a couple of things in the prologue because Jemma magically lost two years (or Bobbi gained two), so I adjusted it a bit. So you'll also see that the summary has changed from them leaving in 1528 to leaving in 1531. And if you notice more date mess-ups, feel free to let me know!

For three days, Jemma didn't speak.  She sat there in silence, hat pulled low over her brow.  She nodded or shook her head when questions were asked, and avoided eye-contact with Ward.  She shivered when the night air turned colder than was bearable and accepted blankets wordlessly.  And then on the third night, shortly after sundown, they entered a city and stopped outside the small inn.  Phil turned to Ward, handing him a small piece of parchment.  

"Take care of it," he said, and Ward went inside. Phil turned to Jemma. "What frightens you most?"  It sounded almost like a trick.

Jemma let out a dry laugh.  "I have to be a boy to have a voice, but is I use my voice, it gives it all away."

Phil smiled at her.  “Don’t worry too much about that.  A boy with a girl’s voice isn’t particularly troublesome.  I wouldn’t change it at all--better to be teased always for sounding like a girl than to be discovered the one time you forget.”

“I think I’m better being silent.”

Phil snorted.  “Not at all, I think.  Everyone’s suspicious of the quiet ones.  Just...don’t laugh.”  He gave her a teasing grin, but she only stared back.

Inside the inn, men sang and laughed and glasses clinked and a woman yelled, “Oh, shut it, will you!” before laughing herself and, outside, Jemma hugged herself.  Inside that little inn, right through that door, sat more people together than she had known her entire life, certainly her entire life since leaving the convent.  How she could survive in such a little world growing so, so quickly, she couldn’t say.  

“Where are we?” she managed to ask.

“Heidelberg.”

“Heidelberg?”

“It is not much longer of a journey than to Paris.  And you mother and I agreed you would be better here.”

“Why?”

“We have our reasons.”

Jemma rolled her eyes.  Heidelberg.  “I’m Italian, you know,” she said, surprising even herself with such a random statement.  “Or at least I used to be.”  Phil cocked his head, so she continued.  “I think my mother was Italian--not May, but my first mother.  I don’t remember her much.  Only she died without marrying my father.  He had a wife.”

“Do Bobbi and your mother tell you this?”

Jemma shook her head.  “We don’t talk about before.  But I remember.  Not specific details, of course--I was just a baby.  But I spent so much time thinking about it, knowing I wasn’t a wanted child.  And I remember the day mother found me.  She was still Sister Melinda then.  She saved me.  I think I’d have burned without her.”

“They thought you were a witch?”

“They thought I was too much to be just a girl.”  She sighed.  “Sir, may I be honest?”

“Phil, if you want.  If not, Coulson works just as well.  You’re not subservient to me.”

“Yes, um, well...I don’t lie.”

“I trust you.”

“No, sir--Coulson.”  Jemma looked down at her lap briefly before looking back at him.  She would maintain eye-contact if it killed her.  “I’ve never told a lie.  Not ever in my whole life.  Not a real one, anyway.  I can’t, I’ve tried.  But everyone always knows.  I went to the butcher twice in a day once--I was hoping his son would be there, he was always so kind to me--and I told him I had eaten all the sausages myself and needed more for my family because I couldn’t think of what else to say and mother was so, so furious that I bought so much, but I panicked, Coulson, sir, because I am a good thinker, the best, probably.  Actually.  But I’m not a fast one.”

“Then don’t be.”  Jemma’s jaw dropped open in surprise, but Coulson continued on.  “You don’t have to lie.  You live with your mother and two sisters.  You mother was a nun who took in orphans.  When the convent would not enable her to raise the three of you, she ran away.  Your life and your thoughts don’t have to change.  They are brilliant whatever you were and whatever will they call you, Simmons.”

“Fitz-Simmons,” she corrected.

But Coulson shook his head.  “Contrary to whatever the world may tell you, there is nothing false about you.”  He placed a hand on her arm and looked towards the inn.  “Be yourself, Simmons.  Don’t think of what you hide.  They might question your size, but nothing that can’t be concealed with a reference to a childhood illness.  The only thing anyone will give a damn about is your brilliance.  And so, who are you and where to you hail from?”

Her heart beat furiously in her throat.  She was no one, nobody.  A little girl with a weird brain.  But here she was, in a little cart outside a little inn in Heidelberg.  She was about to start at university as a boy called James Simmons.  And maybe he could be someone.

“I’m called Simmons,” she said, staring at him.  “I was borne to an Italian woman and a Frenchman in a small village not far from Amiens and orphaned as a...as a boy?”

“Child.  Ignore sex altogether if you must.”

She nodded.  “As a child.  I was adopted by my mother.  I have two sisters, one older, one younger.  We live in Lorraine, not far from Neufchâteau.  I speak French, German, Latin, and English.”

“But you don’t speak Italian?”

“No?”

“You said your mother was Italian.”

“She died when I was young.  We were in France.”

“So you’re French and Italian?” Coulson interrupted.  “Are you Catholic?”

Jemma froze, unsure of how to respond.  They didn’t follow politics much, Jemma and her sisters.  Whether their land was Catholic or Lutheran or Calvinist or whatever other confession that weaved through the continent didn’t bother them.  Their home was their home and, as long as they were left in peace, nothing else mattered.  So quickly as she could, Jemma raced through the gossip she had heard in the past months and tried to formulate and answer.  Heidelberg...Heidelberg...still technically Catholic, she thought, but only technically.  The further from France she moved, she knew, the more complex politics and god would be.

“I…” she began, “I’m here to study medicine.  And anatomy.  I’m here to be a doctor and save people.  I think that alone is enough for God.”

Coulson let out a sad sound, a laugh merged with a sigh.  “That’s a cheap answer, boy, and they’ll think you're hiding something.  Study them, Simmons, and decide what you are.  That will be the thing people question most: how do you worship God and how are you worthy of salvation.  You would do well to convince them.”

The door to the inn opened and Ward came walking towards them.

"She said it won't be an issue, Coulson."

"Top floor?"

Ward nodded.

"Ah!" Coulson exclaimed, looking back to the inn. "Weaver!"

Jemma followed his gaze to the woman walking towards them.  Her expression was severe, but not unkind. She raised an eyebrow when she reached them, skirt swaying around her ankles as she stopped, hands on her hips.  

"Coulson."

"Weaver.  This here is Simmons. He'll be at the school."

Flushed, Jemma climbed down from the cart and nodded, though she avoided eye contact.  

"Simmons, boy," he continued sharply, and she immediately looked at him.  

"This is Anne Weaver, an old friend.  If you have any issues whatsoever, you're to tell her and she'll make sure I'm aware.  I think you'll find you have more in common than you think."

Weaver smiled at her and nodded.  "A pleasure, Herr Simmons."  She turned to Coulson, smile gone.  "A word, Coulson?"

"Of course." He gave her his arm and walked her towards the door of the inn.

Jemma watched them speak in hushed voices and wondered what Coulson had meant.  Had Weaver too been a nun?  Abandoned by her parents?

"Boy."

Ward's voice broke through her thoughts and she looked towards him, her cheeks coloring.  

"You ought to stop that."

"St-stop what?"

He smirked.  "You've got long hair for a boy.  Not unbelievably so, but you'll need a cut sooner than you'd expect. And you mustn't twirl it.  However long their hair is, boys don't twirl it when they think or when they get nervous.  People will talk."

"Oh." She looked to her feet.  She hadn't realized he had known.

"Boy."  There was something of a warning in his voice and he took a step closer to her.  He grabbed her face and brought it to face him.   Once, she might have screamed.  Daisy would have bitten him.  But when she focused on him, she was surprised by the sympathy she found.  "You mustn't blush each time someone calls you boy.  You mustn't get flustered when a drunken classmate takes out his cock for a piss.  You mustn't squirm when they talk about the things they want the rest to think they've done to a woman."

"I'm not afraid," she said.  

"Then you're a fool.  Do you know this world you’re living in?  It is falling apart.  No one is safe.   Certainly no woman, and especially not one who thinks she's above her sex."  He dropped his hand from her face.  "Here," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small leather case and handing it to her.  Hesitantly, she took the case and opened it.  

"I don't want this," she said, sliding the dagger back into its case and holding it out to him.

"And I don't care."

"I haven't even the slightest idea as to how to use it!"

"You poke someone until they bleed."

She rolled her eyes. "I've never even squished a spider."

"Then you would do poorly in our home."  He smiled at her and dropped his voice.  "Please, Jemma.  Your mother asked me to give this to you.  She wants you to be safe.  She's scared."

Jemma stared up at him with wide eyes.  May was never scared of anything.  Nodding slowly, she unrolled the case's sashes and tied them around her waist.

"Lower," Ward hissed.  "Rest it at the widest of your hips.  Hips aren't as comely on a boy and putting it at your waist will emphasize that."

She swallowed and obeyed.  

"Simmons!" Coulson stood in the dim light of the inn’s door and waved her to him.

With a final nod at Ward, she made her way to Coulson and Weaver.

"I thank you for the transport," she said, voice steady as she could keep it.

Coulson smiled warmly.  "You'll do well here, Simmons. Weaver will look after you.  She's a clever one if you ever wish to discuss schooling with someone beside your peers.  But do try and make friends.  Please, your mother would have me hanged if she thought you were lonely."

Jemma nodded.  "You'll look in on her and my sisters, won't you?"

"Don't worry of them.  I have need for Ward to be in Neufchâteau, he'll take care of them.  Your mother is as much my family as anyone."

"Thank you."

"And listen to Weaver, Simmons.  Your mother says you think you know best, and that, so far, you've never been wrong.  But if I need something of you, or your mother does, it will be Weaver who will tell you.   You can trust her."

Jemma looked again to Weaver, who smiled at her.  "Thank you," she repeated.  

Coulson tipped his cap to her and returned to the cart.  "Good luck, Simmons.  Your family is quite proud of you."

"There’s a stable not half a mile back down the road," Weaver called to him.  "They'll trade out your horse and see to anything you need."  She turned back to Jemma. "He says you're smarter than any boy I've known.  And his own boy's a genius."

"I hope so, ma'am, I've never been taught properly before."

"It's not so frightening as it may seem.  Everyone will fancy himself a scholar, but just remember that you’re as much a scholar as the rest.  And they will all work as hard as they can to make your instructors like them.”

She turned to walk into the inn and Jemma followed, taking a deep breath.

But no one looked at her.  They entered and the crowd didn't stop laughing and singing and no one asked who this little girl could be.  Letting out a deep breath, she followed Weaver up a staircase and into the quiet of the living part.  

"How?" Jemma asked quietly as they ascended the stairs.  

"Be specific.  Be straightforward.  How what?"

"How do I make them like me?"

Weaver snorted.  "You don't."  She turned to glance at Jemma over her shoulder.  "They see right through it.  They don't need schoolboys to kiss their arse. They just want you to become a scholar so that they can claim they taught you all you know.  They don't want your flattery. So don't bother.  They won't respect you any more for it. Especially not Vaughn.  His lectures are dull and he knows it, so don't pretend they aren't.  Ah!" She exclaimed before Jemma could ask how she knew of the different instructors. "This will be you.  Here's your key, only I've got the master.  We break-fast at sunup.  If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask.  Goodnight, Simmons."

The door shut as Jemma called, “Goodnight,” and she was completely alone.

She turned to the bed behind her.  At its foot rested her bag.  Ward must have had it brought up when he went in to talk to Weaver.  She herself had completely forgotten it.  Quickly, she went to the door and threw the bolt and, finally safe in the privacy of her own room, changed into the nightgown folded in her bag.  That, at least, was the same regardless of whether she was meant to be a boy or a girl.  So she slipped into the nightgown and wrapped herself in blankets and sat in the middle of her bed.

“Dear lord,” she murmured aloud, “What am I to do?”

She looked around her.  It was not a large room, but larger than the one she shared with her mother and sisters.  Nor was it a large bed, but she had never slept alone save the last few nights, which had been different.  She had been in a cart, travelling day and night, with people her mother trusted.  It had been surreal, from a life that wasn’t hers.  

But she had never properly slept alone in a bed or even a room. Not ever, she realized.  Not once in her whole life, since before she could remember.  She had fallen asleep in bed alone while Bobbi stood beside her, combing her hair and preparing to join, or with Daisy in the next bed while Bobbi and May sat whispering below.  But now there would be no one.  

 _You’re not a child, Jemma_ , she told herself.   _You can sleep alone._

But she never had and, even so, she wasn’t Jemma anymore.  Tears pricked at her eyes and she felt very much like a child.  And so she did something she had never done before (at least, never of her own free will).

She knelt in the center of the too empty bed, and she prayed.

 

_They always say to pray to the Holy Virgin.  That the Blessed Mother will show us guidance.  I don’t know who you are._

_I don’t know if you’re real._

_But if one mother is anything like another, you will do.  Mother, teach me to be brave.  Teach me to know when it is right to lie and sin.  Teach me to be intuitive, like Bobbi.  Teach me to be witty and quick of tongue like Daisy._

_Mother, make me strong like you._

 

She was sobbing now, tears pouring down her face at a volume she hadn’t known was possible.  Her chest heaved with the effort to stay quiet.  It was no wonder, she realized, that Bobbi had run away from her husband to return home.  She wanted her mother, so desperately she wanted her mother.  It was almost odd, she realized, how before three days ago, it had always been May.  How selfish and how cruel has she been!  Her whole life, “mother” had meant May, not the woman who died in the dirt.  And, yet, she had never said it out loud.  None of them had.  But she was, she was and only once had Jemma ever said it.

“What if I never see them again?” she gasped aloud into the night, and her sobs started anew.  She let herself fall back against the pillow and wished in vain for her mother’s soft snores, for Bobbi’s kicks, for Daisy’s hair in her face.  She wanted to run.  To grab her bag and run back down the road until she saw the cart.  To tell Coulson and Ward she wasn’t half so clever as she pretended to be.   _Clever, just clever._  Tell them to please, _TAKE ME HOME._

_What if the peasants rise up?_

_What if they go to war?_

_What if this is the end of times and I am Damn to Hell forever?_

She could hear Daisy cackling in her ear.  “ _Are you possessed, Jemma?_ ” she would say.  “ _Are you mad?_ ”

And perhaps she was.  Tomorrow, she would go to the university.  Should would sit through long lectures and discuss philosophy with young men from across Europe.  And they would never know who or what she was.  And that was only if all went well.

She fell then into a restless sleep.  She dreamt of flames licking at her feet and rope caressing her neck.  She dreamt of being stripped of her clothes and exposed to the world for what she was.  She dreamt it was her fault and she dreamt of her foolishness and her mother’s disappointment.

It was that last thought, that searing image of May wondering how she could have been so foolish to allow this child to go away that sat Jemma straight up in bed, gasping for air, before the sun had risen.  Sweaty and shaky, she walked to the basin near the window to splash water on her face.  She dressed unthinkingly, her brain fully nonfunctional for the first time in her life.  She ran her hand over her face, over the smoothness of her skin.  Shivering, she grabbed a quill and a bottle of ink and, with a relieved grin, her little notebook.  She silently thanked her mother for sending her with it.  It wasn't until she had stepped out on the landing that her position truly registered.  

Little Jemma Fitz-Simmons, bastard girl of a judge and no one, that odd little girl raised by a runaway nun, the peculiar child even her sisters secretly worried for, was leaving her own room in a proper academic gown, off to study at Heidelberg University.  She was going to be someone.  Just not her.  She flattened her gown and walked down the stairs, ready to begin her life.  

"Did you sleep well?" Weaver asked when she made her way into the dining hall.

Not trusting her own voice, Jemma nodded.  

Weaver looked her up and down.  "The first night's the hardest.  You'll adjust."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Herr Simmons.   Simply do well in your studies.  I told Coulson you seemed smarter than his boy and I hate being wrong."

After that, they fell into silence.  Jemma ate what little food she could.  When she finished, she tried to thank Weaver for the food, for the comfort, for the hospitality, but found herself able to only open and close her lips a couple of times.  She was about to open the door to leave when it opened from the outside and a boy about her own age came in.  He stepped quickly to the side, not bothering with any social niceties and holding out a parcel to Weaver.  

"My father asked me to give this to you," he said without preamble.  "Though I don't understand why he couldn't do it himself."

Weaver took the package and placed it on the table.  "Well, I thank you for the trouble.  Since you're already here, might I ask you a favor?"

The boy shrugged.  "Depends--I've got school, mistress."

"So does he," Weaver said, with a nod at Jemma.  "Be a good lad and at least walk with him to class.  Let him know whatever secrets you boys think you keep from me."

The boy gave a smile that did fully reach his eyes, and went to leave.  

"Are you coming, then?" he asked gruffly.  

Jemma nodded and hurried after him, tipping her cap to Weaver as she left.

"Have you been here long?" she asked him, as they walked down the road.  Her voice sounded girlier than she had ever heard it and she fought off a blush.  She focused on him.  Close up, she saw that her initial thought appeared to be correct.  He couldn’t be much older than she was.  From under his cap stuck out light brown curls and his eyes--she had never seen such a blue outside of a June sky.  She realized she was staring and quickly drew her eyes away, praying that her stare hadn’t given her away.  He blinked and looked at her, as though scrutinizing her face and seeing straight through her.

Still he answered, "Since August of last year."

“So you’ve done a full year?” He nodded.  "Do you like it?"

"It's university."

"Yes."  Her heart pounded in her chest and, unsure of what to do, she extended her hand.  "Simmons," she said.

He looked at her hand for only a moment, whether with disdain or curiosity she could not say, before taking it.  She cursed internally, never before realizing how small her hands were.  He seemed not to know it.  

"Fitz," he said, and then continued walking.

_But do try and make friends.  Please, your mother would have me hanged if she thought you were lonely._

She watched as Fitz walked away from her, clearly frustrated with being charged to look after the new girl.

Then, of course, she wasn’t a girl.  She didn’t need an escort.  And, certainly, there had to be friendlier boys around.  It was Heidelberg, after all.

So she ran after him and walked beside him in silence, aware of him looking at her from the corner of his eyes.   _The weird new boy_ , she was sure he was thinking.  It was of little consequence.  She would be smarter than him, she decided, and he could be as rude and disdainful as he pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's curious/confused, in this era, particularly in France and England, "Fitz" _before_ another name often signified that they were an illegitimate child of that line. So when Jemma calls herself Fitz-Simmons, she's saying she's illegitimate. However (though I'm not as sure about naming customs elsewhere), I think that Fitz alone doesn't _necessarily_ signify illegitimacy


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to agentcalliope who is an actual goddess, okay

Her life fell into routine.

Sleep.

Wake.

Walk exactly five steps behind Fitz on her way to the university.

Attend lecture.

Walk exactly five steps ahead of Fitz on her way back to Fraulein Weaver’s inn.

Study.

Sleep.

And so it would begin again.  Sleep.  Wake.  Walk.  Learn.  Walk.  Study.  Sleep.

It was miserable.

As days turned to weeks and weeks slowly became a month, Jemma remained alone.  In the mornings, Fitz would walk into the inn, greet Fraulein Weaver, and walk out, knowing she would follow.  But he never spoke to her, never gave her so much as a glance.  The only time he so much as acknowledged her existence was at university.  Every time she would answer a question or make a comment, he was suddenly aware of her voice and aware of any minute detail she may have left out, whether or not it was necessary.  She could not speak without him saying something to prove just how much smarter than her he thought he was.  It was all as if to say _Go home, little girl, go back to your dresses and dolls_.

It was Thursday afternoon and her head throbbed poorly.  She hadn’t received any word from home in more than a week ( _It’s the snow, the world is slow because of the snow_ ) and had drunk more beer than she knew was possible the previous night--until Fraulein Weaver had refused to serve her, grabbed her by the wrist, and demanded “Go upstairs, _boy_ , or you’ll end up saying something you’ll regret.”

“Or whipping it out for the wrong hussy!” one of the regulars had shouted.

And Fraulein Weaver had raised an eyebrow and said, “Go to bed, boy, and keep yourself covered.”

She didn’t remember going upstairs, but she had woken up in her own bed that morning nonetheless.  And every fiber of her being regretted it.  And her studies had done nothing to help.

Thursday was Anatomy and Professor Vaughn had asked them all draw up one of the Galenic figures, and had, to Jemma’s delight, challenged them to add in anything new that was traditionally there, or to take out anything that they thought didn’t belong.

And, then, to her dismay, said that he would not only be assigning them which of the figures they would be responsible for, but also would be assigning them partners.

Of course, she had been assigned the diseased figure, the pregnant woman.

And, of course, she had been partnered with Fitz.

When Professor Vaughn has said “Herr Fitz, you’ll be with Herr Simmons,” Herr Fitz had simply crossed his arms and sat there, not looking at her, not acknowledging her presence.

_Of course, he’s stuck with the girl_ , she was sure he was thinking.  He had to know.  There was no other reason to hate her so much.

So she walked home ahead of him, as usual, fuming and nauseas and willing herself to put one foot in front of the other.  Behind her, he cursed under his breath.

“Oi!  Won’t you slow down for a moment?”  Jemma froze in her tracks.  “Can’t you walk at a normal pace?”

She turned.  “Can I help you, Herr Fitz?”

“No?”

“Very well, then.”  She turned her back on him and began walking.

“Herr Simmons!  Oh, won’t you just wait half a minute?”  The exasperation and authority of his tone sent all her blood to her cheeks.

“Are you so entitled to my time, Herr Fitz?”

“What? No!”

She took a small amount of pleasure at the genuine discomfort gracing his features.  “Pray, tell then where you live?”  He looked down and mumbled words she couldn’t understand.  “Herr Fitz?”

“Two miles norths.”

Jemma’s eyebrows shot up.  “Then why are you walking south?  It’s freezing!”

“Fraulein Weaver asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“For one day!  Nearly a month ago!”

“Well, it’s not my fault that you walk around like a little lost cat!  Only today, Herr Milton went off complaining about how only you can get lost on your way to the privy.”

“I did not--”

And, of course, she did not.  Only her use of the privy was more discreet than his and Herr Milton’s.  She had to truly hide away from everyone and fully underdress, and _oh dear, that will be my downfall, won’t it?_  She thought desperately of another excuse, but, fortunately, he spoke first.

“You like plants.”

“I’m sorry?”

Fitz reached into his bag and pulled out a rather large volume.  “The man who used to have my room left his Herbiary behind.  It’s in quite good shape.  And I hate plants.”

“They’re incredibly useful.  Why, we couldn’t do a damn thing without them.”

“So you’ll take it?”

“No!  I couldn’t!”

“Oh, don’t be noble, Herr Simmons.  Take it.”  

She took it quickly, holding it close and trying to obscure her small hands.  “I...um, I’ve already thought of some problems.  With the figure.”

“Oh, have you?”  He smiled.  “That’s good.  I have to be honest, Herr Simmons, I’m quite bad with anatomy.  Especially the galenic woman.  Can’t label a damn thing.”

Jemma surprised herself by laughing.  “Are you so scared of breasts, Herr Fitz?” she asked before she had truly considered her words.

But Fitz merely shrugged.  “I’m no Herr Milton.  But, no, I hate all the diseases.  I read about a new one and suddenly I’ve got half the symptoms.”

Jemma grinned, mentally reminding herself to ask about Herr Milton later.  “Well, lucky for you, I’m quite familiar with that one,” she said, and blushed.  “The diseases, I mean.  Not just the female anatomy.”

He nodded.  “I am glad we’re partnered on this.   You might be the smartest one at the university.  Besides me, of course.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I’ll let you go then, Herr Fitz.  There’s no need to walk me home like I’m some little girl.”

He nodded.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.  Maybe we can meet and you’ll tell me all of Galen’s flaws.  I can come here.” She nodded and he turned to leave.

“Herr Fitz!”

He turned back.  “Half a mile further south, Herr Simmons, and you’ll find Fraulein Weaver.”

Again, she rolled her eyes.  “I must ask: is Herr Milton truly scared of breasts?”

Fitz laughed.  “On the contrary.  Have you ever looked at his margins?  Honestly, he should leave the university to become an artist.”

Jemma laughed.

 

The next morning, she rose with the sun, dressed quickly, determined to be ready downstairs when Fitz arrive.  The sun rose higher in the sky and the snow continued to fall and Fraulein Weaver continued to fill her mug with mulled mead and the church bells rang noon and Fitz wasn’t there.

By half past one,  Jemma began to sketch for herself.  

_Asshole_.

She had just completed a (rather horrid) outline, when he came bursting through the door.

“Fitz!”

“‘Morning, Simmons.  Would you believe I slept until the bells at high noon?”

“You’re late!”

Fitz place his hands on his hips.  “We never set a time.”

“Well, if we have all this work to do, meeting in the evening surely won’t work.”

“An hour past noon is hardly evening, honestly, Simmons.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes.  “Are you going to help or not?”

Fitz immediately walked to the table where she sat and looked down at her parchment.  “You’re an abysmal artist, Herr Simmons.”

She let out an indignant _humph_.  “What?  And you’re better?”

“Yes.”

He pulled out some parchment from his own bag and, in five minutes time, had proven his point.

“Oh, very well then.  You can draw.”

Fitz shrugged.  “I like it when images represent life.  Anatomically correct and such.”

Jemma elbowed him.  “You ought to just partner up with Herr Milton and turn in a collection of pornography.  I’m sure Professor Vaughn would love that.”

Fitz sputtered beside her.  “ _Herr Simmons_!” he exclaimed.  “And I had you pinned for a pious one.”

She shrugged and heard herself say.  “Anatomy can be seen.”  Fortunately, she caught herself before she could continue and looked down, face flushing.

But beside her, Fitz nodded and said in a quiet voice, “God, not so much.”

She stifled a gasp and managed to nod.  “Yes, well, I fear no learned man has ever so much as spoken to a woman.”

“No?”

“Have you looked at the image we’re supposed to be doing?”

Fitz looked down at his own sketch.  “Look, I’ve only got brothers, but I think this is at least what the outline ought to look like--”

“Oh, no!” She shook her head.  “Not yours.  It’s good.  I mean, it seems quite good to me.  I mean, I would assume that that’s what women look like.”

Fitz laughed.  “Dear lord, I thought I was bad.  Listen, Simmons, whatever you hear anyone else say, I don’t think half of them have ever spoken to a woman.  Milton’s a pervert and tall, but that’s about it.  I hear Fraulein calling to you when you get back some days.  I know you have sisters.”

“Yes,” Jemma said, cheeks burning.  “Sisters.  Well, then, our woman should be fine.  But, I mean more generally, you see.”

“Ermmm…”

Jemma bit her lip.  Well, at least she had some firsthand experience with the female anatomy.  “That’s really the big critique, I suppose,  Bone, muscle, nerves, arteries, veins, they’re all beautifully accurate.  This one…”

“Less so?”

Jemma nodded.  “This one...well, how can you possibly be expected to learn a thing about the female anatomy when all you’ve got is a horribly distorted figure, who’s also pregnant, who also is meant to show us what a diseased person is like?”

Fitz looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite place.  “Then, how then, Herr Simmons, did you possibly become so expert in the female anatomy?”

It was a simple question, asked with such earnest.  It wasn’t teasing, it was simply curious.  And yet there was no good answer.

_I’ve examined my sisters,_ sounded nearly perverted.

_I’m a girl, myself_ , and she risked being unnatural, a witch.

But there were, of course, other truths.

“Someone as clever as you, Herr Fitz, ought to know that a lack of penis should not prohibit one from maintaining a healthy balance of the humors.”

“I suppose so.  An inclination towards imbalance shouldn’t prevent one from eating well.”

“I’ll be forever confused, I must admit,” Jemma said absentmindedly, “as to how it’s...the female sex that’s more inclined to imbalance.  They do, after all, expel any ill humors with frequency.”

Fitz’s cheeks reddened and Jemma cursed herself internally.  Of course, boys didn’t talk of the female cycle as she and her sisters did.  “S-Surely, they wouldn’t need to if they were more balanced to begin with.”

Though she was mildly impressed that he had managed to get the words out, Jemma fought the childish urge to stomp her foot and demand to know if she seemed imbalanced to him.  Instead, she forced a smile and said, “Still, we might be better off splitting the figure into three.”

“You think?”

“Yes.  Any physician with any respectability should know a non-pregnant woman from a healthy pregnant woman from a diseased person.”

Fitz smiled.  “You’re the anatomist,” he said in consent.

They worked until sundown, having long since finished their schoolwork and moved on to altering other aspects of the anatomy, male and female, to examining the Herbiary he had given her, to sketching the paths of the planets and stars.  They paused their talk only long enough to thank Fraulein Weaver when she brought them a supper of stew, and all too soon, the night had grown dark, snow fell lightly outside, and Jemma realized that she had found a friend.

“Walk quickly,” she said, as he made his way to the door.  “Though not too quickly, or you’ll slip on ice.”

“Don’t worry, Simmons, I’ll be fine.  I’ve walked through snow before.”

And then he was gone and she was alone, but she could survive it.  He’d be back the next morning, he had told her.  He knew someone with a brilliant astrolabe she had to see.  When he told her so, she had nearly wanted to throw her arms around his neck in excitement and had blushed furiously at the thought, thankful he hadn’t noticed.

No sooner had the door shut behind than did Jemma tear a fresh sheet of parchment from her bag.  
 

> _My Dearest Mother,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well, though I should think it will find you no differently than did my last. I know that I have written frequently, more so than I expected, and I don't want you or Bobbi or Daisy to think I'm unhappy.  I have made a friend, and I'm sure my sisters will take far more joy than they should out of me spending so much time with a boy, but tell them I'm happy.  I'm no longer so desperately alone._
> 
> _As I do each morning and each night, and every other moment, I thank you for every opportunity you have given me._
> 
> _(And tell Daisy that I know she’s laughing at me, but I still mean it.)_
> 
> _Give my sisters a kiss from me._
> 
> _Your most Grateful child,_
> 
> _JS_

Smiling to herself, she folded up the parchment and held it out to Fraulein Weaver.

“Fraulein, could you see that this gets sent in the morning?”

Weaver raised her eyebrows.  “To your mother?”

“I fear she and my sisters worry about me.”

Weaver nodded and took the letter.  “You should be careful, Simmons.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be a fool, boy.  Remember yourself.”  She smiled.  “I’ll see you at sunup.”

“Goodnight, ma’am.”

Slightly confused, Jemma packed up her things and made her way upstairs.  By the time she had made it to her room, the stew, delicious as it had been, was seemingly beginning to disagree with her, and all she wanted to collapse into bed and sleep the burning of her insides away.

When she awoke hours later, she knew something was wrong.

First, she still felt as though someone had set fire to her insides.

Second, she opened her eyes and found that she had slept well past sunup.

Third, the _smell_.

Fourth, when she sat up in an attempt to gather her senses, she was acutely aware of a warm wetness between her thighs.

Cursing, she jumped out of bed, threw back the blankets, and looked down.  Her heart pounded in her chest, and she took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself.

“You’re fine, Jemma,” she whispered aloud.  “It’s all perfectly natural.  A balancing of the humors.”

Still, she wanted to cry.  Or be sick.

Oh, she should have known.  She ought to have been better prepared.  She was sixteen years old, after all.   Bobbi had only been fifteen when hers started.  She let out a gasp as her insides tightened painfully, and when it only worsened, she dropped to the ground and groaned.

From downstairs, she heard something that sounded vaguely like her own name being called, then there was a thunderous sound of feet running up the stairs.

“Oi!  Simmons!”

Oh, no.

Oh, no. Oh, no.  Oh, _no_.

She pushed herself up off the ground and flung herself at the door.  On the landing, she could hear Fitz panting.

“Oi!  Simmons!” he repeated.  “Are you alive?  Weaver says you didn’t break fast this morning.”

Crouched on the floor, leaning against the door, Jemma looked around the room, mouth agape.  “I...I...I suppose I was still sleeping.”

Fitz laughed.  “Well, then, Herr I’ve-Never-Slept-Past-Dawn-In-My-Life, are you ready to go?”

“I…”

“Won’t you at least let me in?”

“I’m sick.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m... just sick, Fitz!  Just go on without me.”

“I’ve seen an astrolabe before.”

“Fitz!”

“Do you want me to send for a physician?”

“Will you just leave!  Please?”

She buried her face in her knees and willed herself not to cry.

“Yeah.  Yeah, um, maybe next week?  I’ll see you at school, then.”

She listened to his retreating footsteps and let out a quiet sob.  Would it be too late to ask Weaver not to send her letter?  Could she send another?   _Dear Mother, I’ve remembered the reason women cannot do anything ever and please let me come back home?_

Outside her door, someone stepped onto the landing.  “I said it’s fine, Fitz!” she exclaimed, half hysterical.  “I’m just a tad ill.”

But it was Fraulein Weaver who responded.  “May I come in?”

“Oh, Fraulein!”  Jemma blushed.  “I’m sorry.  I’m a bit ill today and really it would be better if you didn’t come in and I should be fine.  Maybe a week, at most.  Nothing fatal.”

“Jemma.”

She froze.

_Jemma_.

“Jemma, let me in.”

As though moved by a power greater than herself, Jemma stood and unbolted the door.  Fraulein Weaver stood there, unsmiling, yet still warm, with a steaming cup in her hands.

“You...um, how long have you--”

“I’ve known Phil Coulson longer than you’ve been alive.  Do you think he and your mother would have truly left you with no one?”

“No!  Well, yes.”  She backed up, allowing Fraulein Weaver into the room, and blushed at the mess that was her bed.

Weaver looked at her sympathetically.  “Is this your first?”

Jemma nodded.

“We can clean it, easily, I think.  And I can tell you some ways to hide it.  And drink this.”  She thrust the cup into Jemma’s hands.

Nodding graciously, Jemma took a small sip.  “That’s what he meant, wasn’t it?  When Coulson said we had much in common.  He was trying to tell me you knew.”

Weaver nodded and made to strip her bed.  “I studied astronomy, would you believe it?”

Jemma let out a little gasp.  “Did you really?”

“I loved it.”

“Then why--”

“Do I run an inn?  I practiced for a few years.  And I miss it, I admit.  But I couldn’t take the hiding anymore.  I still read quite a lot, and some of the locals let me teach their daughters.  But I was happy, Fraulein Simmons, to have Coulson come into my inn and ask me to take in his best friend’s girl.  He said you’re as smart as they come.”

Jemma blushed.  “Are there others here?  Like me?

Weaver shook her head.  “Not that I know of.  But there are good people here.  I’m not saying you should tell anyone, because that would be terribly foolish.  Just be a good judge of character.  The more time you spend with anyone, the more likely you are to reveal yourself.”

“Herr Fitz?”

“Herr Fitz is a good man.  A bit dense at times, but good.  I don’t know if he would ever suspect, but I think him good enough to ignore any suspicions.”

Jemma nodded.  “I’ve never met anyone interesting before.”

Weaver turned to smile at her, yet it was almost tinged with sadness.  “Then you should savor that, it will get you through your time here.”

“But?”

“But don’t forget who you are, at the end of the day.  There is no greater sadness that realizing you have completely divided yourself in two.”

Jemma hugged herself, but nodded.  Unsure of how to respond, she said, “I can clean those.”

But Weaver shook her head.  “That would look rather silly, I think, if someone saw you.  But I’ll bring up a tub so you can have a wash.  So what if it lets a demon in,” she said with a laugh, “it’s better than any man’s stink.”

And Jemma could not help but laugh, and hope that Fitz would accept her most sincere apology. She stood in the middle of the room, in her blood-soaked nightgown, waiting for Fraulein Weaver to return with the tub, and tried to figure out what to do next.  She would think of an excuse, of something, of anything, to explain her monthly disappearances.  Maybe an aunt in a neighboring village that needed tending to.  

No, that was terrible.

_So just don’t lie._

But of course, she couldn’t do that.

She could not tell him--but she’d feel awful if being around her threw off the balance of his humors.

She was still pondering how to go about life when Weaver returned.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Jemma looked at her.  “Oh?”

“You can’t possibly hide this, because they know enough of women to know that no man disappears monthly.”

Jemma nodded and stripped off her nightgown when Weaver instructed her to.  “What do I do?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself.

“May I tell you a secret, Jemma?”  She nodded.  “Men only know that our bleeding is happening, and imbalancing their humors, because we tell them to stay away.  If we don’t tell them, they don’t know.”

Jemma laughed.  “Well, you’re an astronomer.”

“And?”

“Stars work very differently from the humoral system, Fraulein Weaver.  I’ve read everything I can on it.  Women bleed to cleanse themselves of unwanted humors.  It balances us, but disbalances the environment and that would be terrible unfair to everyone I come into contact with.”

“Everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me then: did you or your younger sister ever fall ill when you mother or older sister bled?”

When Jemma didn’t respond, Weaver collected her bedding and nightgown and walked towards the door.

“If there is one thing, Jemma, that I can advise you on, it is this: question everything.  Every theory you’re taught as fact, question it.  Even if it’s true and has been true since the dawn of time.  Great men don’t become great by accepting what they’re told.  And great women, well, we make due.”

She pressed a cloth into Jemma’s hand, and then she left.

For several minutes, Jemma only stared at the shut door.  And then, when she remembered herself, she dipped the cloth into the tub and began to wipe herself off.

On one hand, how could she possibly question everything?  If all was thrown into question, there would be nothing left to rely on.

On the other hand, she was a young girl slowly becoming one of the brightest students at the University.  Were she a man, she could be anything she wanted to be.  And all it took was a loose-fitting gown to make that happen.

The whole world was already in question.  Perhaps that was all it was, really.  Question after question after question to never be fully answered.  And those that were would only be questioned again by the next generation.  Who would be to say what was right and what was wrong.

She wiped the cool cloth between her legs, rinsing it the tub, and, for the first time in her life, wondered more about the questions she had yet to ask than those she had yet to answer.


	6. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic, for the most part, will semi follow the trajectory of season one. That means that certain characters who can screw a cactus for all I care may be portrayed in a good light for now. So please remember that, despite what's said in the beginning of this chapter, this is not a pro-Ward fic and definitely not a Skyeward one.
> 
> Thank you, Casey, for kicking my ass into writing this and dealing with all my BS in general

 

> _My Dearest J,_   
>  _I hope this finds you well.  May apologizes for not having written recently.  Things have been different without you here, Sweet J.  It seems as though our dear sister was not honest with us (or even herself, so it would seem) about her bout with marriage and liked it more than she ever let on.  Bobbi has taken to taking long walks alone when the weather permits.  But they have not been as alone as May and I were led to believe.  (Her husband, I should add, is not so bad looking.  Not as good as Bobbi deserves,  but not so bad)  Anyhow, May told her off, saying it was an awful idea, that she will only end up heartbroken, and that she should end it at once.  Bobbi was quite cross, as I’m sure you can imagine, and reminded May that she is not a child.  It was actually rather vulgar, J darling.  I think you might have blushed horribly when our sweet sister declared that she was a woman grown and married and would “fuck my husband when I damn well please.”_   
>  _I think she’s considering returning to his home with them, but, selfish as it may be, I pray she doesn’t.  But you mustn’t worry yourself with my loneliness.  Even if Bobbi should leave again, I’ll still have May.  Ward, as well.  I hated him for a while, because he was the one who took you from me.  But he’s been good to us.  He’s living nearby, and is so kind to check in on us and keep me company.  Was he so friendly when you went away?_   
>  _I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like him.  He thinks of everyone before himself.  Somedays, I just talk and talk and talk and he never complains, he just listens to me as if I were the most fascinating person in the whole world.  Just last week, I told him I had never seen a real life horse before (which_ _you_ _know isn’t true, but I’ve decided it doesn’t count if I don’t remember it).  And the very next day, he showed up on horseback and took me riding!  It was the most amazing day of my whole life.  May was absolutely furious, though.  How dare I disappear like that, how dare he take me anywhere without her permission.  Blah blah blah.  I think she’s just worried I’ll elope like Bobbi did._   
>  _We fought so horribly about it, J, I am ashamed to tell even you.  I yelled at her something terrible.  I accused her of trying to lock us away from the world and keep us with her because she’s scared to be alone.  Her face was truly something frightful.  She told Ward we would see him the next day and told me to go inside.  J, I think I did the worse thing I’ve done in my whole life.  I told her that she can’t make me do anything because she’s not my mother.  She didn’t even yell at me, but I wish she had hit me.  I would have hit me.  I cried hard than I’ve ever cried before.  I think I must have shaken the whole house.  And May just held me, J.  She just held me like she did when I was a child to calm me down, and I think it just made it a hundred thousand times worse and I just kept crying and crying and I think I called her Mama but I can’t remember.  I think Bobbi must have gotten me, because the next thing I remember, I woke up in bed and May had a cool cloth on my head and was telling me to breathe.  That was the next morning, last Wednesday.  While I was asleep, Ward brought us_ _two_ _chickens and a whole sack of vegetables and Bobbi boiled it to the most delicious soup I’ve ever had._   
>  _Life has been so strange since then, J.  I am scared that I don’t know who May sees when she looks at me.  I want to apologize.  To tell her that saying she’s the only mother I’ve ever known isn’t enough, because she is a better mother than I think anyone could ever imagine having.  She’s been different though.  I can’t quite explain it.  I think she worries about you, though.  I do._   
>  _I hope you are happy, sweetest J, and that your new life has turned you neither hard nor cold.  Foolish as it may be, I pray for you constantly and hope that you are happy and never alone._   
>  _All my love and a kiss,_ _  
>  _ _Your favorite little sister,_ _  
>  Daisy_

  
“Simmons?”

_I pray for you constantly and hope that you are happy and never alone._

“Simmons, are you alright?”

She blinked and looked up.  “Sorry?”

Fitz tilted his head. “You’re crying, Simmons.”

Immediately, Jemma folded Daisy’s letter shut.  “Men can cry,” she snapped, surprised by the thickness of her own voice.  

Fitz dropped his bad beside the table at which she was sitting in the corner of Weaver’s inn and sat across from her.  “I never said we couldn’t,” he said.  “I only acknowledged that you were.”

Jemma felt herself blush in embarrassment and looked down at her lap.  “Would you think me less of a man if I told you I missed my family?”

To her shock, Fitz let out a laugh.  Furious, she shoved Daisy’s letter into her pocket and stood.  “In that case, Herr Fitz, I have nothing further to say to you.”

Immediately he stopped.  “Melodramatics doesn’t suit you, Simmons.”

“Nor does cruelty you!”

For a moment, Fitz opened and closed his mouth in surprise.  Balling her hands into fists beneath her sleeves, Jemma felt a sick sense joy coupling with embarrassment has Fitz struggled for words.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“Only that you have only a mother and sisters.”

She fought the urge to put her hands on her hips.  “What’s the supposed to mean?”

Fitz stood and she was thankful that he wasn’t much taller than she was.  “That I have only a father and brothers and fear for whatever men you may have known in your isolation!”

Breathing heavily, Fitz sat down, looking up at her with kindness Jemma was starting to question if she deserved.  

“I should think you far less a man, Herr Simmons, if you didn’t care for your family.”

Oh.

She sat back down.

“Herr Fitz, I…”

“You’re baffling, Herr Simmons.  And horribly defensive.”

“My older sister constantly reminds me of that fact.”

“As well she should.” He nodded slowly as he sat back down.  “I think you’re quite honorable, though.”

She felt her cheeks began to burn, though because of what, she could not say.

“Um, was there anything you needed, Fitz?  Or just sought to keep me company?”

He smiled.  “The latter, mostly.  But some of the others were thinking of going down to the river.  It’s warm today.  Or less cold, at least.”

“Oh.”

“We could just stay in if you want,” Fitz said quickly, sensing her hesitation.  “I don’t think we would be letting anyone down.  There’s a large enough group going.  A few others from medicine: Herr Milton, Herr Daniels, Herr...oh, what’s his name?  The left-handed one?”

“Herr Gill?”

“Yes, him.  A theologian or two I don’t know, and Herr Triplett, of jurisprudence.  He’s in here sometimes.”

“Herr Triplett is going?”

“You have an issue with him?”

“No, no!” Again, Jemma flushed.  “I only wish I knew him better.”

Fitz looked at her for a moment as though she has said something odd, but only blinked and smiled.  “I could provide an introduction.  He’s a friend of my brother--we grew up near each other.”

“You would?”

Again, Fitz flashed her an oddly forced smile.  “Of course.  So you’ll come then?  Today?”

She took a deep breath.  To go to the river would be without a doubt the most foolish thing she had done since arriving in Heidelberg.  She could hear in her mind the cacophony of Ward and Weaver and Coulson and her mother--her mother louder than all the rest--telling her not to be so foolish.

“I told Herr Triplett I’d meet them there, but honestly, I’d be happier away from Herr Milton and his dull-as-a-cabbage brain--”

“Let’s go!”  She stood up quickly, too quickly.  “It...it could be nice to get to know some of the boys from jurisprudence.  And philosophy and theology!”

Fitz laughed, although Jemma could sense some discomfort.  “As long as you don’t abandon me to go study theology.”

“Ugh, Fitz!  As if I would ever study something so fool--”

She let out a gasp and brought her hand to her mouth.  “I only meant...I only…”

Fitz patted her shoulder, albeit somewhat awkwardly.  “I know what you mean, Simmons.  You know I think as you do.”

She nodded, heart pounding, and followed Fitz down to the river in silence.  By the time they arrived, Gill, Milton, and Daniels were already in the water.

“Ah, Herr Fitz has finally graced us with his other half!” Herr Milton exclaimed, standing up in the water.

Totally and completely naked.

Jemma cheeks burned hot.  She turned to Fitz. “They’re swimming!”

Fitz scoffed and began to kick off his boots.  “No, they came to the river on the first beautiful day of the year to stare at the grass.”

Self-consciously, she crossed her arms over her chest.  “ _What are you doing?_ ” she hissed, as Fitz began removing his robe.

He raised an eyebrow.  “Surely a health expert such as yourself would see the stupidity of swimming with all our clothes on.  We’d freeze to death before we were home.”

She was thankful he turned towards the water before he stripped completely.  “Honestly, Simmons, has living among women made you as modest as they are?”

“Herr Simmons!”

_Oh, thank god._

She turned out the sound of Herr Triplett’s voice.  “Herr Triplett!  How lov--how nice to see you.”

He smiled.

(Honestly, she couldn’t remember what he had said the night he came for a drink in Weaver’s inn.  Only that he smiled.)

“I’ve been meaning to talk with you.”  He gestured towards the woods.  “Would you care for a walk?”

She glanced back towards Fitz, doing her best to keep her gaze lifted to his face.  “You can go in without me,” she said.  “I’ll be back.”

Fitz nodded, disappointment flashing in his eyes for only a moment.  “Yes, of course.  I’ll...I’ll be here.”  He nodded at Herr Triplett in a fashion nearly too curt as to make Jemma think they were as familiar as Fitz had suggested.

She flashed him a quick smile before turning back to Herr Triplett.  “Shall we, Herr Triplett?”

He smiled again as she rushed towards him.  “Trip’s just fine, Herr Simmons.”

“I suppose you should drop the ‘Herr’ then, too.”

He only laughed and continued towards the woods.  

“What’s so funny?”

“You, Simmons.”  He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the other boys, their laughter already distant.

“Me?”

“‘I suppose you should drop the ‘Herr’ then, too.’”

“Well, that would be quite awkward if you called me ‘Herr’ and I only called you Trip.”

Trip sighed.  “They say you’re the smartest person here.”

She blushed.  “Well, very nearly, at least.  I think Fitz is smarter, technically, or at the very least my equal.  He just doesn’t care enough to show it.”

“Can I be honest, Simmons?”  He stopped and leaned against a tree.

She hugged herself, uncomfortable.  “I don’t think I can say no.”

“Are you an idiot?”

Her mouth fell open.  That hadn’t been what she expected.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“That’s the point.”  Trip sighed.  “You are so damn lucky those idiots wouldn’t know a woman if she danced naked before them.”

Jemma swallowed, nausea bubbling in her stomach.  She tried to laugh.  “If you’re taking me to a whore, Herr Triplett, I’m afraid you’ll find me ungrateful.”

Trip stared at her.  “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.” But her voice squeaked in betrayal.

“Look, I’m not particularly clever at medicine like you and Fitz are.  But I’m as observant as the come.  Got me in a lot of trouble as a kid.”

“Maybe you’re just nosy,” she said before she could stop herself, voice trembling as her eyes squeezed shut.

“A piece of advice, Simmons?”

She didn’t move.

“Men don’t go straight to throwing punches when they insult one another.  You keep shutting your eyes when you’re feeling both scared and fierce, and men dumber than me will know.”

Shaking, Jemma opened her eyes.  “I’m boring, Trip, there’s nothing to know about me.  Just raised by women.”

Immediately, Trip burst out laughing.  “Shit!” he gasped out.  “What’s your given name?”

“J-James.”

“Not that one.”

“I’ve only got the one.”   She began shifting her eyes around the clearing.  If she moved quickly, she could possibly make it back to Fitz before Trip could grab her.  And then…

And then Trip had been Fitz’s friend from childhood.

Perhaps she could run along the river, far, far away.  Find a dress along the way--perhaps in a village someone would help a lost girl.

Or she could run to Weaver.  

And expose her too.

“Simmons!”

She looked up at Trip, tears welling in her eyes.  He squeezed her shoulder.  

“I think you’re very brave.”

She nodded slowly, blinking.  “I think I’m rather afraid.”

“You’ve made it this far.  It would be stupid to ruin it all for a swim.”

“Fitz wanted--” She gasped and stared up at Trip.  “Fitz?”

He smiled.  “He won’t hear a word from me.”

She nodded, her breath coming back to her.  “Thank you.”

“You could give him some credit, though.”

She shook her head.  “My mother...she has spent her whole life making sure that I was never again called a witch.”

“You were before.”

“I don’t wish to insult your sex.  But nothing terrifies a man more than a woman who can outsmart him.”

Trip gave her a warm grin.  “Then most men must be quite scared.  They’re almost all fools.”

She nodded.  “I guess I was being silly in coming here.”

Trip shrugged.  “I’ll always be your out if you need it.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled and began walking back towards the river.  She took a deep breath.

“Jemma,” she said softly, the lack of familiarity slithering beneath her skin and clawing at her bones, comforting and terrifying all at the same time.

He turned back towards her.  “Sorry?”

“That’s what I’m called.  Jemma.”

Trip tilted his head towards her.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jemma.”

It was all she could do to nodded before wordlessly following him back to the others.

Fitz was already dressed against when they returned.  He tilted his head at her, silently asking how she was.  She nodded.

Herr Gill’s voice broke through the air.  “DOWN, MAN, DOWN!”

Surprised, Jemma only blinked as Fitz dropped to the ground.  Behind him, Herr Daniels stood, arm outstretched towards where Fitz had been standing between them.  There was a sharp slap against her chest and it took her a moment to recognize the waterskin at her feet and the way her soaked robes now clung to her.  With a small gasp, she wrapped her arms tightly her chest.  Before the others seem to recognize what had happened, she found herself knocked to the ground, Trip lying  awkwardly on top of her.

“Drop your arms,” he hissed in her ear.  “What the hell do you have to hide up there?”

And, then, loud enough for the others to hear, “Shit, I’d had hoped to get you down in time.”

Herr Milton snorted as Trip stood, pulling Jemma up with him.  “That was the damn slowest reaction, I’ve ever seen, Herr Triplett!”

He shrugged.  “Still sobering up from last night.”  He laughed as he ran full force into Milton, vulgarities echoing around them as they discussed the previous night.

“Simmons?”

She blinked at Fitz.

“I think I’m going to head home.”

“I’ll join you!”

Fitz’s face lit up.  “Yeah?”

She nodded enthusiastically.  “Yeah.  I think I’m ready.  I’ll freeze if I stay out here.”  She fought the urge to cover her chest.  If she ignored it, perhaps he would, too.

Fitz flushed.  “Sorry about that.”  He began walking and she was quick to follow.  “I wish you had stayed.”

“Oh?”

“Those boys are awfully stupid.”

“Well, that’s just because you’re the smartest person here and you know it.”

Fitz looked down at his boots, his feet dragging as he walked.  “Man.”

She quirked her head.  “Sorry?”

“I’m the smartest man here.”

Jemma bit her lip.  “That’s what I said.”

“You said person.”

_Damn_.  “Yes, well, I suppose it’s all the same.”

“I’m the smartest man here, Simmons.  Not the smartest person.”

She looked down, determined he would not see her blush.  “Well, I suppose Frau Weaver has us all beat.”

For several minutes, they walked in silence.  Jemma’s heart pounded furiously as her mind raced through every possible insinuation of Fitz’s words.

“Can I ask you an odd question?”

Jemma nodded before realizing that he too was looking down.  “You’ve never asked to ask before.”

“Why do you think there aren’t girls here?”

She only allowed herself half a moment to be surprised before she forced herself to scoff.  “It’s university, Fitz.  There isn’t any need for them.”

“No, no, I…” he swallowed.  “I know technically there aren’t any girls here, but don’t you ever wonder?”

Jemma shivered, and was unsure if it was because of her wet clothes or the implication of Fitz’s words.  “What would happen if they let girls in?”

Fitz shook his head.  “You said your sisters are clever.”

“They are.”

“Don’t you wonder if they could ever try to...come anyway?”

She balled her hands in her sleeves so that he would not see her shaking.  “Come to university?” she forced out, her mouth painfully dry.

“Yeah.”

She shook her head.  “No,” she said softly.  And then louder, “No, a girl would have to be a fool to come here.”

“Why?”

The urge overwhelmed her and Jemma hugged herself.  “Do you really think an education is worth hanging for?  Or worse, burning?”

For several minutes, neither spoke as they trudged their way through the mud.  And then, very quietly, Fitz said,

“Yeah.  I think it is.  Don’t you?”

She tried her hardest to keep from gasping for air.

How could he not understand?  As much as she thrived now, she could feel herself preparing to burst.  She would have to ask Weaver how to survive.  How could she move on day by day, filled not only with so much knowledge, but the knowledge that there was so much more to have, and to never be able to use it?  She would study and study and study and one day go home to stare at a wall and know that there was so much more that she could never have.  That’s what she was risking going to the stake for.  The chance to be miserable for the rest of her days.

Instead, she said, “Of course.”

* * *

 

> _My brightest Daisy,_   
>  _I think you’d tease me if you knew how much I cried reading your letter.  It hurts me to know how alone you are._   
>  _Some days, I am too.  Alone and afraid and missing you more than you can possibly imagine._ _  
>  _ _I dream in flames, Daisy.  And ungrateful as it may be, I wonder if my whole life is in error._ _  
>  Maybe I was destined to burn and my whole life has been a postponement to make it all the more painful._

She watched the parchment dance in the flames and began again.

> _My brightest Daisy,_   
>  _You cannot imagine how pleased I was to get your letter._   
>  _One day, you’ll control your temper.  But in the meantime, know that I think May loves you best of us all.  Don’t feel guilty--I don’t mind it.  I am content being her Jemma, always._   
>  _I am glad to hear that Ward is so kind to you.  He was, in a way, a comfort in my travels._   
>  _I’m making friends, dearest Daisy.  So don’t worry for my loneliness.  I wish I had more time to write you, but I don’t know what more I can say.  I worry about what might be discovered were this to fall into the wrong hands._   
>  _More, I worry that you would exaggerate and frighten Bobbi for me.  Or exaggerate in your own mind and worry yourself._   
>  _I am happy, though, Daisy.  For all the stress and fear and anxiety, I think this is the happiest I could ever dare be._   
>  _I love you more than I can tell and miss you constantly.  Give May and Bobbi all my love, and add a prayer that I should come home soon._ _  
>  _ _Forever your loving Sister,  
>  Jemma_


End file.
